With the recent news of the death of America’s #1 bogeyman, and the odd(but not really) reactions to his death displayed all over our tv’s and computers, I thought I’d put this post out there since death is on people’s minds. This is more about our personal relationship with death—or more accurately, the lack thereof. I’ve sat on this post for weeks. Partly because of its personal and sensitive nature, partly because I’m just not satisfied with the quality of writing and want to do the subject matter justice, and also because I’m still collecting my thoughts on the subject. But, sometimes you just have to put your thoughts out there, warts and all.

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Death. Its on my mind sometimes. I think it’s on a lot of people’s minds, but always under the surface. It is the one constant of life that we all share, regardless of our circumstances. It is also the primary motivation behind our fear based decisions. Oddly, no one seems to want to talk about death. Ever. It’s seen as socially wrong, or morbid to talk about it. Sure, you can talk about it in the abstract, like a character that died in a movie. But in real life? No way. All I know is that I’ve faced it several times in my life, and each time, I handled my response to death poorly. Why? I’ll let you decide for yourself.

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My first experience with death was like a lot of peoples’. My grandfather had died. I was eight years old. I don’t remember if it was sudden or if it was expected. My most vivid memory of that time was seeing my father cry when he got the phone call. It was the only time I ever saw him cry. My dad was not one to show such emotions. Anger, irritation, the occasional laugh—yes. But tears. Never. I felt sad, like anyone would, but didn’t really hurt that much myself. Eventually, we all die, I thought. Why is it so sad when we die after living a long, productive life? Yes, I was that pragmatic at eight.

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Seven years later, that belief was put to the test. One evening, my mother woke me from my sleep. I could tell that she had been crying. She sat down next to my bed and told me that something awful had happened. My immediate thought—our dog had died. (That was the worst I could imagine.) Unfortunately, it was not our dog that had died. My oldest brother Chris, had been killed in a training accident. Chris served in the National Guard, and the vehicle he was riding in flipped over, killing him and another serviceman. Chris was 21 years old.

The day of the wake, my cousin, who only meant to express sympathy and understanding tells me she understands my pain. Her grandfather had passed away not long ago. My immediate emotion was not one of empathy but resentment. Anger. How can you compare the death of a grandparent to a brother, I thought? They are not even close. I often think about my reaction that day. Why was I so offended? She meant well. Perhaps she was closer to her grandfather than I was to mine. Still, I couldn’t help thinking that tragic death, is the death of the young, not the old.

Weeks later, as I was struggling to keep it together, I had a dream. In it, Chris came to the back door of our house like he had done many times before. I opened the door, stepped outside and hugged him. I told him I missed him. We talked and I wish I could remember it all, but the words have faded from my memory. I do remember him telling me that he was OK. That everything would be all right. And then he told me goodbye. I didn’t tell anyone about this dream for ten years. I could barely talk about my brother for ten years. But, I have absolutely no doubt that he was there and we spoke that night.

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Six years ago, I found myself in the living room of two of my friends, Jason and Carrie. The were married just a few years earlier. I was at their wedding. They were a great fit for each other. For whatever reason, it was not meant to last. Jason had committed suicide the night before. This was an unfathomable shock to me. I always felt an affinity towards Jason even though I couldn’t call us close. He, like me, wasn’t an open book, but I never saw despair in his eyes—just intelligence, empathy and humor. Carrie was in the bedroom doing what any of us would be doing at a time like that—struggling to keep it together. I wanted to be anywhere but there. But, I was there. A mutual friend said I needed to come. Perhaps my friend thought the more people there, the better.

When Carrie came out of her bedroom, she was surrounded by her friends and family. They did their best, but, everyone there looked and felt out of sorts. Nobody knew how to act. Nobody knew what to do. Neither did I. I found Carrie. Hugged her. Kissed her on the head, and headed for the exit the moment someone gave me permission to do so. I wasn’t much help that day. I think most of those people in that living room were dealing with their first sudden death of a person that they knew. They didn’t know how to deal with it. It was my second go around, and I still didn’t.

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Three years ago, I got a phone call from my mother. Dad had another stroke. It was his second in 6 months and he never fully recovered from the first. I needed to come to the hospital. It was a long drive. When I got to the hospital, she told me he was gone. He had the stroke (or a heart attack) that morning, and most likely died instantly. They let us come into the emergency room to spend a few moments with the body. I couldn’t imagine why we would want to do this, but I went ahead with it.

His body was covered, still intubated and extremely still. I’d never seen a dead body outside of a funeral. It was surreal. This was someone I knew and loved. Someone I’d known all my life, who was alive just hours before. But looking down at him, it wasn’t my father anymore. His body was smaller than I’ve ever seen. Like someone literally shrunk him. All the light and energy was completely gone. I could feel the difference. I don’t know why, but this was very good for me to see. Once you die, the body really only has meaning to those left behind.

Even with this revelation, I still managed to get so sick the day before the wake, that I needed to go to the hospital. Why did my body fail me? Because like a lot of people, when faced with painful and uncomfortable emotions, I push them down and try not to face them. Ultimately, that doesn’t work. Your body eventually lets you know what you’ve told your conscious mind to ignore.

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I think about the next time I will have to deal with the death of a loved one. I don’t really have any answers. Death is a part of life. I’ve had my fill a bit earlier than most, but there are plenty who have lived through more difficult loss than I. We all deal with it differently. I think a lot of us don’t deal with it particularly well. We are insulated in our culture by the technologies and comforts of our modern world. We are often dulled to the natural cycles of life. Now I know religion is our primary intellectual tool for dealing with these weighty subjects, but nothing will test your faith in your religion more than your relationship with death. Maybe the best way one can deal with death, in life, is to talk.