The Aerie
Well I'm just getting too old for all this.
It's been a hell of a week or so. I spent the first couple days after
Steve died in a serious blue funk, which I suppose is only to be
expected. But of course I didn't know quite what at expect, since I
don't have a hell of a lot of practice with death.
The deaths in my family were quite limited. Before I was old enough to
understand, three of my four grandparents were dead. This is what
happens when one's parents are both the youngest in their families, in
my father's case the youngest of ten.
We'd also lost my Uncle Bob to cancer, but I have no memory of him:
just a vague impression that he was nice and funny, along with a
strong respect for the damage the loss of a father can do to a family.
And amazingly, to me, my aunt never remarried and raised her five kids
alone.
At thirteen my last grandparenT, my paternal grandmother, died. This
was also not traumatic: she had lived with us for three years in New
Jersey, becoming increasingly demented, then lost touch entirely in
the nursing home. We'd moved back to my mother's home state of
Minneapolis and lived there for a year before she died. So my rather
callous 13-years-old response was "Well, finally,"
And then, tho it seems like an odd complaint, nobody in my family died
for DECADES. Two, to be exact.
A few acquaintances died. Penny Kennen, "the girl with the scoliosis
brace" in high school, died of a brain aneurism as a newlywed. She had
been sweet and nice and it sure seemed a bum waste to have had to wear
that stupid brace all that time, then to take it off and die.
My high school mentor died next
TITLE:of the thrice-cursed brain cancer
TITLE:but he was gone before I knew he was ill and I never got to see
him. That one was hard, but mostly for the anger I had about never
getting to say goodbye.
Then my maternal uncle John died. He had been the one to throw the
annual Fourth of July parties, and since then the Fourth has always
lacked its marrow. I go to Professor Barker's now, but of course it's
not the same, not at all.
And then, again, nothing for almost ten years. And now my father, and
Steve, all in seven months. Along with 9/11 and the wars in
Afghanistan and Iraq, I feel as if the year 2000 rolled around and the
world turned into a hellish plane of misery and death.
So Saturday I've been honored, and I do mean that, with a request to
speak at Steve's memorial.
But what can I say? I hardly know what I feel. It certainly strikes me
as odd to be asked from among so many people who knew and liked him.
I guess I'll do what I usually do when I'm in a bind like this, so far
out of my league. I guess I'll just be straightforward and honest
about my thoughts and feelings.
I guess I'll describe how I've been astonished at how close and caring
his friends are. How their bravery and compassion illuminated the kind
of friend he must have been for them.
And my grief for his wife, siblings, and parents, who deserved so much
more time with him. My deep admiration and respect for their courage
and dedication in supporting him. At my awe for the majestic love they
showed him.
And I won't try to draw a lesson from all this, or justify it as some
step in a Greater Plan. Some things are just bad. Some equations end
in a negative number.
But I will point out that Steve would have been the last person to
tolerate everyone being gloomy. Steve loved a good time, and didn't
really ask the world for more than the occasional good time.
And I suppose I'll point out some small things. The time he snorted
Gummi Bears out his nose. Or the fact that I nearly killed him twice
while driving.
I dunno. It's hard to say what I'll say. Maybe I'll script it out, but
most likely I'll wing it with an outline the day that I'm there.
All I know is I'm not very good at this... and I hope I don't get any
better.
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Posted by Albatross at August 6, 2003 12:00 AM