What's a good death, do you think?
They say grief comes in stages. Obviously that's only a rough model, but it's a model with a lot of options.
Denial, I think, is the instinct that gives rise to that feeling that they're going to come through the door any minute. That uncertainty about the places they lived, or even their seat near the bar, that keeps us glancing over for them. I suspect this is where stories of hauntings come from; we feel there's something wrong about this room without that person in it, so our minds fill it in for us. Soul-proprioception.
Anger is only natural. We get angry about the things we can't change, and death is so adamantine-immutable. Everything else that happens to a person, we focus on their reaction to it: good luck, bad luck, accidents and disease, what they've earned and what's come to them unbidden. But they cannot react to their death, because they've gone. We can't talk it over with them, hold their hand and help them to suffer less. And it's the one time we most want to do that.
Bargaining I don't understand, though I think it's a different aspect of the same thing. We want to change things, so we look for ways to do so. As social animals, that involves looking for someone to trade with. But as we know, she doesn't take trades.
Depression - we miss what we've lost. A great wrong has been done to a loved one, and we're powerless to prevent it, or even to help them deal with it: of course that fills us with sorrow.
Acceptance, they say, is the goal. And when the hormones have died down and someone else has taken the favourite seat, when the sound of their voice has begun to fade and the desire to help them has been misfiled beneath the merciless trivia of everyday life ("life goes on", they say, like it's a good thing) - then we acknowledge that the story's over.
Rest.
So what's a good death?
My great-uncle Johnny was born in 1918. He had an eventful life, and it ended two weeks ago (I will go into more detail on his life, but not in this post). Two weeks before that, he fell and fractured his good hip, so the doctors gave him a matching replacement. He retired to a hospital bed, and as is the way with badly injured 96-year-old people, he stayed there.
The last time I went to see him, he spent most of his time praying, and a little confused from the medication and the trauma of the operation. To call that continuous prayer out-of-character would be an understatement - but my parents, who visited him more frequently, said he'd come to acceptance that he wasn't long for the world, and I think he might have felt that he would die soon, and if so, he would want it to be with the name of Jesus Christ on his lips.
His acceptance helped me immensely. In one sweep, there goes denial, anger, bargaining. There's nothing that I or anyone need to help with; he's content to let his story end. Depression - well, they say depression is acceptance before the thick swell of emotion wears off, so of course I'm sad. But if I get to 96 with a story half as interesting as Johnny Ralph's, I'll be content to let it end too. And I'll try to pass that on to those who love me: do not look for me in the places I loved, but remember why I loved them; do not beg for my return, but remember why you liked having me around.
So what's a good death?
I don't know, but I think he had one. He wasn't sad, he wasn't in great pain, and he was well-loved and knew it. He was waiting to join all the family and friends he'd outlived. He was hopeful for his loved ones. He was ready.
And so, to rest.
They say grief comes in stages. Obviously that's only a rough model, but it's a model with a lot of options.
Denial, I think, is the instinct that gives rise to that feeling that they're going to come through the door any minute. That uncertainty about the places they lived, or even their seat near the bar, that keeps us glancing over for them. I suspect this is where stories of hauntings come from; we feel there's something wrong about this room without that person in it, so our minds fill it in for us. Soul-proprioception.
Anger is only natural. We get angry about the things we can't change, and death is so adamantine-immutable. Everything else that happens to a person, we focus on their reaction to it: good luck, bad luck, accidents and disease, what they've earned and what's come to them unbidden. But they cannot react to their death, because they've gone. We can't talk it over with them, hold their hand and help them to suffer less. And it's the one time we most want to do that.
Bargaining I don't understand, though I think it's a different aspect of the same thing. We want to change things, so we look for ways to do so. As social animals, that involves looking for someone to trade with. But as we know, she doesn't take trades.
Depression - we miss what we've lost. A great wrong has been done to a loved one, and we're powerless to prevent it, or even to help them deal with it: of course that fills us with sorrow.
Acceptance, they say, is the goal. And when the hormones have died down and someone else has taken the favourite seat, when the sound of their voice has begun to fade and the desire to help them has been misfiled beneath the merciless trivia of everyday life ("life goes on", they say, like it's a good thing) - then we acknowledge that the story's over.
Rest.
So what's a good death?
My great-uncle Johnny was born in 1918. He had an eventful life, and it ended two weeks ago (I will go into more detail on his life, but not in this post). Two weeks before that, he fell and fractured his good hip, so the doctors gave him a matching replacement. He retired to a hospital bed, and as is the way with badly injured 96-year-old people, he stayed there.
The last time I went to see him, he spent most of his time praying, and a little confused from the medication and the trauma of the operation. To call that continuous prayer out-of-character would be an understatement - but my parents, who visited him more frequently, said he'd come to acceptance that he wasn't long for the world, and I think he might have felt that he would die soon, and if so, he would want it to be with the name of Jesus Christ on his lips.
His acceptance helped me immensely. In one sweep, there goes denial, anger, bargaining. There's nothing that I or anyone need to help with; he's content to let his story end. Depression - well, they say depression is acceptance before the thick swell of emotion wears off, so of course I'm sad. But if I get to 96 with a story half as interesting as Johnny Ralph's, I'll be content to let it end too. And I'll try to pass that on to those who love me: do not look for me in the places I loved, but remember why I loved them; do not beg for my return, but remember why you liked having me around.
So what's a good death?
I don't know, but I think he had one. He wasn't sad, he wasn't in great pain, and he was well-loved and knew it. He was waiting to join all the family and friends he'd outlived. He was hopeful for his loved ones. He was ready.
And so, to rest.
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