Perspective
I was out at lunchtime Saturday, and drove past the cemetery. This would be the same cemetery that, on a day early in my bereavement, made me go from laughing to bawling in an instant, just upon seeing it.
It didn’t have that effect on me this time, I was surprised to find, and I watched as I traveled the length of it on the road in front of it, almost as if I were testing myself. Would I cry? Would I be overwhelmed? Would I go numb?
As I was staring at the cemetery, I noticed a burial in progress in the far back corner, a small tent set up, people on all sides dressed in black. I am surprised when I see weekend funerals; I don’t expect them, but unlike weddings, most of which happen on Saturdays, most deaths are not planned; they happen when they happen. Death doesn’t keep bankers hours, and its schedule is unknowable.
I was neither overwhelmed or in tears. I felt for those mourning, and my heart went out to them because I know how hard their road will be for quite some time, but what I felt was more a sigh and a shrug. It is their turn, I thought, and not with dark glee, but rather, an acceptance that this is how life works. It includes death. That reality is very present for me now, since A passed away. I cannot escape it. You can try to outrun the firsthand knowledge of death, but once it catches you, you belong to it forever after. You cannot unring this bell any more than you can any other.
It is hard to say how this knowledge has affected me. I think I live a more present life, if not a more exciting one. Excitement has never been my major motivator. But I frequently stop and look around my life, and think “If I went tomorrow, would I be okay with how things are? Would I be upset that this project was unfinished, those words unsaid?” And I think I would be okay. My life has shrunk to manageable size based on focusing on priorities. I want to love my loved ones well, and not spend too much time being angry, petty, or difficult. Everything I do is to further those goals because now that I have lost someone that I loved deeply, that meant the world to me, I have an unasked for, yet valuable, perspective. I know what has become important about our relationship, and which things that, while seemingly important at the time, have turned out not to be in the hindsight of grief. To put it bluntly, the question I frequently ask myself these days when my nose is out of joint about something, or headed that way, is “Will I care about this when s/he is dead?” Generally, the answer is no, and if I wouldn’t care then, I decide not to care now, and focus on the love. Because I would give anything to have him tune me out and tune into the TV instead, again. I’d give anything to hear him snore. I’d give anything to wash his dishes up after dinner. I’d give anything to talk to him when he’s crabby. At least he’d be here.