After Death
This week I find myself surrounded by the dead, the dying, and those facing their own mortality for the first time. Friends of ours are rushing to Phoenix to be with family, while a brother and uncle lies in a hospital bed, in a coma, on a ventilator. They have to make decisions, hard ones, irrevocable ones, without having the slightest idea of the patient’s wishes. Prior to Tommy taking over his salon, it was owned by his father, Jim, and business partner, Joe. Joe retired last year when the ownership changed hands. He had been dealing with kidney failure for over 6 years, and this past week he made the decision to suspend his dialysis treatments, and on Wednesday, he passed on. A co-worker of mine has a son, 39, who just had a tumor removed from his brain, and now he has to relearn much of what most of us take for granted, like tying a shoelace or holding a fork.
I recently finished my first screenplay, about a gay man whose lover died of cancer, and then I just read two books about grief, Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, and Diane Rehm’s On My Own. Joan’s book tells her story of the year she almost lost her daughter, while at the same time, losing her husband suddenly to a heart attack. Diane Rehm’s story is about her moving on after her husband, suffering from the end stages of Parkinson’s disease, chooses to end his life by refusing food and water. Similar books, very different approaches to grief and loss.
Death, death everywhere.
While writing this essay, the tiniest of spiders slowly descended on an invisible web right in front of my computer screen. Without thought or hesitation, I picked up a piece of paper towel I had on my desk, killed it, then went upstairs to throw it away. When I got to the kitchen, I noticed a rather large mosquito on the wall. I killed it as well. I then discarded the corpses in the trash.
Death, death everywhere. And I am a killer as well as a mourner.
Such is life, right?
What amazes me is how many people refuse to discuss death, what it means to them, what it might mean to their friends and family, and what happens afterword. I’m fortunate that Tommy and I can openly talk about anything, even if it ignites feelings of sadness or loss when no loss has actually taken place yet. We’ve had esoteric conversations about when we would want to be taken off of life support, but not really specific ones. “If my brain is gone and someone else has to wipe my ass, pull the plug!” is my refrain, Tommy’s is a little more piggish, “If I can’t fuck something, let me go!”.
Usually, if a conversation I’m a part of turns to talk of death, it’s usually me bringing it up. Death does not make me uncomfortable, neither does talking about it, or talking to the dying or the bereaved. People who are dying know they are and sometimes they want to discuss it. People who are mourning really DON’T want to hear, “They are in a better place.”, or, “Don’t cry, you’ll get through this.”. They WANT to cry, sometimes even need to. Just listen, maybe tell a story of a happier time, touch their hand, or just be there.
I find the diversity of what people believe happens after we die to be fascinating, and sometimes a little maddening. It’s fascinating because, no matter what ANYONE thinks, we’re all gonna go through the exact same thing, and no one actually knows what that is. It’s all faith, and faith is believing without proof. Some of us think we live, and then we die, and that’s it, lights out. No after life, no God, nothing. There is the concept of heaven, some version existing in almost all religions, as well as the ridiculous concept of Hell. The problem with the majority of “heavens” out there is that you have to be a member of the club to get in. I picture signs outside the gates of “The Heavens” reading, “No Jews!”, “White Only!”, “Fags KEEP OUT!”, “Irish Need Not Apply!”, “Catholics, Scram!”, “Muslims, Don’t Even Think About It!”, “Jehova’s Witnesses ONLY!”.
This just seems crazy to me. Even though I have my own religion, my own belief’s, they do closely allign with that of the Pagan faiths. In my mind, there are two options.
Option 1: We all die and go to the same place. No hell, no purgatory, no different sections for those who donated more, or were more holier than thou than others, just an afterlife. I think we get the chance to come back and experience life again if we choose, to continue learning and growing. Some people find this a bit off putting because it means that people like Adolph Hitler and Jeffrey Dahmer don’t spend eternity being tortured. A friend of mine once said she hoped that when she died and got to heaven that she’d be able to go on River Boat Tours of Hell, where, from the comfort of a paddle steamer, while sipping wine spritzers and nibbling on cheese plates, you get to watch infamous murderers getting their intestines torn out by vultures.
Good times.
But, unfortunately, or possibly even fortunately, hell is a concept that doesn’t make any sense to me, especially among the belief in an all loving, all forgiving God. It just wouldn’t happen. I’ve seen mothers of murdered children forgive the killers, saying how they just can’t keep hate in their heart…so how can a perfect being not be able to do that. It just seems that most people believe in a truly hateful god.
Option 2: This is something that I just came around to thinking about, and I’m not sure if it’s comforting or horrifying. What if, when we die, instead of going to the next plane, instead, we retreat into our spiritual sub-consciousness, where we spend eternity living in our own memories. For me, that would mean great food, great booze, great sex, great times, great art. Thousands of movies and TV shows to watch and rewatch, countless books and comics to reread. The people I love, always laughing, my doggies, my kitties, New Orleans, the mountains of West Virginia, drawing, painting, writing, and loving.
Sound pretty good?
It does…if you HAVE good memories aplenty. But what bothers me about this possibility is what happens to those of us who only know pain and fear. The abused child, murdered at the hand of a hateful parent. Imagine an eternity stuck with only those memories. Memories of war, of hate, of violence, of fear. That would be a true hell, but it wouldn’t happen to the evil or the wicked, it would happen to the victims.
I imagine a devout monk, somewhere in the hills of Europe, dying, and then waking up in his memories of….dry old bread, the pain of kneeling on stone floors while praying for hours, flagellating themselves to prove their religious discipline. I hear him screaming, “Seriously? Where the fuck is heaven? This is what I’m stuck with? Shit, why the hell didn’t I at least join a monastery that makes wine?!?!”
If Option #2 is true, it would mean the only true way to heaven is through happiness and experience. The more great things you do, like eating that amazing meal, drinking that ridiculously expensive bourbon, exploring nature, reading, enjoying any kind of art, or finally having that three way with your hot as shit neighbor, leads to more happy memories to choose from to relive for eternity.
If Option #2 is true, it would also make life an exercise in selfishness. The better MY life, the better MY afterlife. Of course, as a side effect of that selfishness, you would have to be a good person in order to keep the best people in your life, furthering your happiness within your eternal sub-conscious. Our memories of other people will be the only company we get to keep, so make sure you choose wisely.
Truth be told, I’m still leaning towards Option #1. It’s simple, and I get the chance to come back and experience this world again. A lot of people think that sounds just awful, but I happen to love life. The world, in and of itself, is perfect, it’s the human beings who are fucking it up. However, just in case Option #2 turns out to be true, I’m gonna do everything I can to experience as much as I can, which means popping open another bottle of bourbon tonight, a new one, one I’ve never tried before. I might as well start stocking my after-life bar now and fill it up as much as I can, after all, in my heaven, I have six pack abs and I never wake up with a hangover!
Now, if I can only find a “hot as shit” neighbor…
The other day I was listening to a story on the news about an elementary school teacher who brought a pumpkin to the classroom for Halloween. She put the pumpkin on the windowsill and left it there. The students spent the rest of the year watching this pumpkin slowly rot away into nothingness. That same year, one of her students lost a Grandparent. His mother was sure he would fall apart, but, the lesson he learned about the cycles of life and death from his teacher, and the rotting pumpkin, softened the blow for him and he was fine, understanding more than the parent gave him credit for.
Something similar happened to us a few years ago. We had bought several pumpkins for Halloween, one of which sat on our fence post. Some critter had knocked it off, and it fell behind another smaller fence we had put up to keep the dogs from getting out of our yard. We left it there because we didn’t want to be bothered with moving fencing and all that. The following year, we noticed a really beautiful vine growing in that same area. Then, bright, stunning, yellow flowers appeared on the vine. A short while later, a new pumpkin began growing on the same vine. The old pumpkin fell, rotted, planted itself, and sprouted new life anew.
Life is a cycle, death is part of that cycle. You can accept it and learn to appreciate what you have when you have it, or you can fight, and go mad facing the denial.
Have the tough conversations with friends, family, and lovers. Make sure everyone knows what your choices would be if tragedy strikes. Love a lot, laugh a lot, enjoy as much as you can. Put the phone down, look at the sky, hold someones hand, pet a dog. Fighting death is impossible, loving life is not.
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