I went to a therapist for the first time with the intention of getting over my brother’s sudden death after trying to save him. When my father died, it hit me harder the second six months. I needed some coping skills. I wanted to expedite the process of grieving. Get over it faster.
“I know you want to move on quickly. Are you avoiding the death of your brother?” my therapist asked.
“Are you kidding me?” I said and threw my hands in the air while looking skyward. “Death is sitting on my face.”
It has taken up residency in a part of my brain and won’t move out. I would love to give it an eviction notice. Better yet, break down the door and beat the crap out of it.
While sprawled out in a recliner, death takes control of the remote and oozes a lens over my eyes throwing everything askew. My clouded perception warps sunny days and blows a draft through my heart. I shiver.
I’m done with death.
It’s a lying, cheating, deceitful son-of-a-bitch. I don’t want anyone to die ever again.
When I told my friend, Bill Hurtley the funeral director, he laughed.
“That would be a disaster.”
I imagined airlines for the elderly and low profile nursing homes replaced by skyscrapers. Soon there would be more golden agers than any other age group.
It’s been a struggle. Death comes in waves. My waves are timed different than everyone else in my family. While one of us is chillin’ in the water doing the backstroke, another is drowning. It’s unpredictable.
The water metaphor comes up all the time. It’s ironic how we arrived home to water pouring through the ceiling. “You should immerse yourself in death,” said my therapist. “Write about it.”
“Do I have to?” I felt like a kid who was told they couldn’t go out for recess, but had to stay inside to do homework. Continue reading