Death is Wounding
Sounds obvious, I know. But worth contemplating.
Death wounds us. It cuts hard and deep. Knives of killers and doctors do their work on our outsides and innards, some to destroy and others to mend. It happens in every possible way.
It may be the way to survive. A knife has been used to defend a thousand innocent lives. Daggers have done other awful works through the ages. A tool of protection and injury, a knife does its good and damage.
We are wounded through these cuts and incisions. Staving off or inviting the end.
Death inevitably comes.
Thinking, reflecting, making some sense that is left to those of us surviving and mourning. We all come to know the pangs of death, more as we age. To know it in youth is particularly sobering. But it is painful at all ages.
Many call it coping. I believe psychologists and doctors of the mind, healers and chaplains would agree with that. Coping heals, or leads to wellness, wholeness. Peace.
Death leaves wounds on those that live on.
In thinking this through, I thought of two deaths that brought a sort of release and content acceptance for me; contrasted, I thought of a sudden death that brought me regret and vertigo.
And, most notably, I omit the person who really has me thinking so much of the subject. Too close, too real, too painful. I write this very post in order to deal with thoughts that leave me weary, restless, or vexed. Angry? Depressed? Down (One or more levels below depressed, but bummed all the same.)
So I will discuss some of these other cases of death. Real, nevertheless. Time has been given more perspective to them. And the forgetfulness of the pathos involved may help as well.
First, to describe the deaths of those that burden us, those passings of our earth acquaintances and companions that can provide some solace. Almost fortuitous, to not sound trite.
I was once in a place where the will, or policy, of an aged person prevented many others, most of them aged and less powerful than she, to not have access or contact to potential people, like me, to see and greet them. This seemed wrong. I felt it somewhat deeply. She was a type of an ogre, as far as I knew.
When that aged person--the abuser, in my eyes--finally died, and I and others of youth and all description were able to meet the others in their elderly, and sometimes feeble, but tenaciously vibrant in their latter years stations, I felt like that the release of that one tyrant (again, my perspective), was a gift to many. Death was perhaps a balm for others.
Another case: I was in a place where death was the mission, more or less. A war zone. In that great fate of time and circumstance, the "game" was preventing the death of yourself and your allies, and bringing strategic capture or death to our enemy. Keep it as far away as possible, and bring that harsh reality to the distant (hopefully) foe.
I was feeling pretty vulnerable as a person doing my part, wondering if my efforts and skills and knowledge--my whole existence of being in that theatre-- after time enough when I knew I was valuable, yet I was self-doubting and worse, having those doubts voiced by those that I respected around me, but did not really know me.
Then the day came when I heard the news: one of our enemies was killed; our team was responsible. That made us shine in the light of our comrades. Respect was afforded, a physical release of doubt and self-questioning was released. My commander lauded me, and at the same time asked," Are you good with that?"
"Yes, sir." I said, part of me emotional and most likely wanting to cry. But I was relieved at my alleviated status of the unknown. "I am good with it." I told him.
He did say I had blood on my hands. I accepted that.
I thought about it a lot then, and quite a bit since. Sometimes I can cry about it. I think that his poor soul deserves it, and his family too. I don't mean he deserved death. I mean he deserves my honor to his life and my sorrow.
In the end we are all brothers. We choose sides in some conflicts and some of us receive more mercy. I have been granted living (surviving) mercy, and perhaps that young combatant was given a more glorious one. He was taught of the afterlife as paradise as well. Muslim, Christian, Jew ... We all bleed the same and pray to the same God.
By the way, when I tell some who have been in active combat this story, sometimes they are outraged that the commander spoke with me like that. I have shared the events with those who have directly taken the lives of others. They were fighting for themselves and their buddies to the left and right. Literally.
One asked me poignantly, with deep immediate empathy, "He did that to you?"
His reaction surprised me, and then I felt bad that I had put him in those shoes, he a former gun shooting fighter who was living with his own conscience. My story surely pricked his own feelings of having done irreparable harm to others.
I think I needed it. From both that commander at the time and the younger combat veteran two years later. We have to own the good and bad of our decisions. Our lives. And deaths.
Wounds work both ways. All ways. It can be hard to tell who is really hurt the most.
The cliche quotes," We all mourn differently, and at different rates."
It is true. Too true.
A coffin or watery grave leaves the physical semblance of finality and permanent injury, but our hearts and minds can run so much deeper. The wounds of our souls can be left bare and greaving for unintended epochs.
When I was soon to be 45, a coworker suddenly passed. I was relatively close to him; he and I had joined the same work office within weeks, had worked together for months, and not only was he he a true subject matter expert in his field, AND friendly and helpful (it does not always work in this fashion), but we considered each other friends and we could confide in each other. We talked about serious things that mattered, and we joked about the silliest of subjects, fooling and imitating strange foreign accents. He could, and would, really make me laugh.
It was a Tuesday morning when I came in the office late September and another shared office colleague informed me of his sudden death.
Surprise, shock, a little numbness.
What? How? When? This morning at 5:30? He complained to his wife the night before of a headache? Today was just another Tuesday! Like so many before!
Underneath we ask: Why?
He left a wife and two girls, all happy and laughing a lot, I imagine. Before.
Wow.
He reminded me of Robin Williams. If you have never been made to laugh by Robin Williams, then I think you need to know how that feels.
I spoke with this man, Keith, who was 46, a year my senior, shortly before the unexpected blood clot took him from this earth. There were some stressors on him, a trigger that we identified that led to his recent taking up smoking cigarettes again.
He had gone through some tough times, he had been without work despite his talents and a city where work for the likes of him abounded. He had put on too much weight before, but now he was at a good functional size. Not obese. Guys twice his size easily live to 70.
Not Keith.
Rest in peace, my friend. And by that saying, what I mean is that I hope that you are cherished and remembered dearly by all that knew you.
You made me laugh. And I pray that the heavens abound in your laughter and creativity.
"Respaict ma auth-or-itah!" And German inventions of all sort. Hilarious.
Thanks again, my brother. Life killed you.
And it will to us all, so buckle in. It's nice we can laugh in peaceful, idle moments, though.
Meanwhile, us survivors have wounds, some that are quite visible, others that can be deeply hidden.
Some of us carry and feel the wounds of comrades lost in previous times, or feel the agony and loss of those that are half the world away and we never knew them, only their demise. Too often tragic, heartbreaking. Empathy is natural, even for those we may never see or know.
Think of most news stories, think of any war or catastrophe.
As a young person and into my adult life Vietnam, the conflict for America in that jungle environment, was a mystery to me, more so than Korea or World War II or any other bloody campaign. Maybe it haunted me since diapers. I was born 5 years before it officially ended.
Once at a very lively and fun concert, I found myself listening to a tune that I had associated with the Vietnam War and the incredibly foreboding losses there.
I found myself weeping inconsolably. I tried to hide my effusively flowing tears from those around me. Luckily it was dark.
I see a bad moon rising
I see trouble on the way
I see earthquakes and lightnin'
I see bad times today
Don't go 'round tonight
For it's bound to take your live
There's a bad moon on the rise
I hear hurricanes a blowin'
And I know the end is coming soon
I fear rivers overflowing
I hear the voice for rage and ruin
So don't go out tonight
It's bound to take your live
There's a bad moon on the rise
I hope you got your s--t together
Hope you are quite prepared to die
Looks like we're in for nasty weather
One eye taken for an eye
Don't go 'round tonight
It's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise
Don't go 'round tonight
It's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise
(Thanks John C. Fogerty and Clearance Clearwater Revival.)
Thank you, Vietnam combat veterans, living and dead. Both sides, all sides.
We are all brothers. And sisters.
We mourn your lives.
We look at our wounds, your wounds.
We see the scabs and scars of past injuries, past mortal and non-mortal blows upon our heads and torsos, our appendages and into our very inner beings.
I have had cuts and bruises, finally a broken bone, and other odd lacerations and blows to the skin, bones, and internal organs. I have had heartaches and soulful pains, as we all do.
Fingers, arms, legs, sides, ears, shoulders, all parts of the body.
Healing usually takes place, but not always.
The pain can seem overwhelming at times, it can take a while to overcome.
To cope and move on past those hurts, those wounds, those blows to the body and psyche.
Others can help, and usually do.
Some can pick at the wounds, and we ourselves can do it. Some can needlessly re-aggravate and re-open injurious wounds and hurts of the past, that might be best forgotten.
Unintentionally, usually.
I apologize in advance if this rakes over or bruises the wounds that we have accrued.
I am sorry. I am sorry that we hurt so.
Yet, wounds heal. We heal.
We move on. We transform. We triumph.
This is not all.
Death is not what we let it leave on our bodies.
Life is eternal. Pain is a passing phase.
And what a phase it is.
I am grateful for tears, feeling joy and pain. It is very possible to cry a river while smiling and laughing.
Let's do this.
Tears of love, joy, and loss mix with the sweat and blood of who we are, and make for a healing balm, an ointment of wholeness and life.
Life is abounding behind our wounds.
