Gloom-and-doom

This morning, much of what my 'reading radar' is picking up seems to be centered on the cheery subject of death. So I'm going with it, as I sit here listening to the dying chuckles and rustles of our guinea pig in the box I'm now carrying around everywhere with me.

In our culture, death is the big "Do Not Discuss." Anything related to death we relegate to whispers, glances and euphemisms. One of my long-standing pet peeves has been the phrase "passed away" or "passed on." It used to make me nuts to hear people say that; I'm a little more forgiving now in that it may help some of the survivors to hear that phrase instead of "died." But, FYI, when I go, I plan to die, not pass on. That's actually in my funeral instructions--yes, I have written instructions--along with what songs to sing, what Bible verses to read, etc.: do not use the words "pass on."

Why are we so afraid of death, or at least so unwilling to face the reality of it? One of my theories is that death is the biggest sign of our lack of control over our lives at a basic level. We can't, for the most part, pick the time/place/circumstances of our deaths. Yes, there's always the suicide option, which is why Hemingway (et al.) get such big play. In the long run, however, most people don't have the wherewithal to off themselves before Death's Big Semi runs 'em down.

I also think that if (when) people think death is the end, death becomes scary. I know a lot of older people who actively welcome death; 90% of those people are very religious. They view death as the Next Big Adventure. I tend to agree with that in a lot of ways.

But whatever happens to me happens. Generally, I'm ok with that. What I think we all struggle with is that we're not ok with the fact of carrying on after someone else dies. And it is a fact that life goes on after someone dies. We still have to eat, sleep, pay the bills, go to work, grocery shop, do dishes...even while our 'hearts lie panting on the floor.' That's the hard part. That's the part that takes strength and courage and stubbornness.

When my father died, my mother--a life-long staunch Presbyterian-churchgoer--didn't go to church for about 6 months. It was shocking. On the other hand, there is a woman at our church whose husband died last year; she now attends worship almost every week after years of cutting herself off from the church.

Once the first weeks and months of getting along are over, I think it also takes a great deal of openness to accepting change to get past the death. That's the part I struggle with. Change is scary (I learned that in Communication 101); most people subscribe to the "devil you know" theory of reality. When change is forced on us, we usually aren't able to process it rationally, but eventually it's necessary understand our reaction. That (hello, Comm 101 again) is the only thing we can control: our reaction.

I'm preaching to myself here: I don't control my reactions well at all. I'm an emotional paint-spinner.

Anyway, that's why we warned Sparky that Cinnamon may not make it this weekend. And this is part of the reason I've given funeral instructions. Finding my father's directions, and having my sister be able to plan her funeral with the minister and music director, was a wonderful gift from them to us survivors.

But, as Sparky has said in the past, "Death sucks." He's right.