Cleveland
March 17
St. Patrick’s Day of the Dead
St. Patrick’s Day, a big deal here in Catholic Cleveland. Growing up in Texas, the only affect this holiday had on me is that everyone was supposed to wear something green or risk getting random pinches. It wasn’t until I lived in New York in the 80s that I understood what St. Pat’s really was: An excuse for hordes of drunk assholes to obnoxiously roam the streets all day.
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I’ve been thinking about death a lot lately. A dear friend of mine, Ken, died this past New Year’s Eve. He’d been suffering for four years.
The last time I saw him I should have known it would be the last time I would see him, which means I should have said all those Big Things you should say during such a visit. I was a coward and in denial and so remained casual. He died less than 48 hours later. I felt, feel, like a real schmuck about that. Ken should have heard me tell him I loved him and appreciated his friendship and all of those other things.
I may have a chance to do better with another friend. Randy, the guy who owns and runs a website I’ve written for for eleven years, is in an exhausting fight with cancer. He lives in Pittsburgh, which it turns out is just a couple of hours down the turnpike from Cleveland. I called him yesterday and told him I want to come see him next weekend. Hopefully he’ll let me.
If he does, I need to make sure and say the Big Things this time around.
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I’ve never handled the idea of death well. Never. It’s not that I’m particularly afraid of what happens after we die. It’s just that death seems like the ultimate gyp, the ultimate order of “get out of the pool” from the Cosmic Lifeguard. I think life is interesting and fun, and I don’t see why we should have to give it up.
I wish I could have my father’s equanimity on the subject. He always says, “I’m so lucky I had the opportunity to be a point of consciousness in the universe.” I applaud his attitude but have yet to achieve his peace.
I’ve always thought I’ve been relatively sheltered by death. I’ve never lost a sibling, or a parent. I lost far fewer friends to HIV than many people I know. Maybe I suck at death because I haven’t had enough practice.
But when I began to take stock of all the dead people I knew, I was surprised at the size of the list:
Partial List of My Dead People
- My father’s father’s mother
- My father’s mother’s mother
- My mother’s father’s mother
- My mother’s mother’s mother[1]
- My father’s father
- My mother’s father
- My mother’s mother
- My cousin Julie (motorcycle accident)
- My great uncle Raymond
- My dad’s cousin Ray
- Doug Web (AIDS)
- Steve Sorrentino (AIDS)
- Roxy (taught me how to raid in World of Warcraft)
- Jean (soap opera writer)
- Two neighbors from my building
- Ken
Looks like I don’t really have an excuse. I need to figure out how to be at peace with the idea of death. Because, as John Irving’s Garp said, we are all terminal cases.
[1] Yes, I knew all four of my great-grandmothers.
