Life is Known to be Fatal

Like most people, I’ve lost people I love to various forms of death. Only one of them has been expected–we knew my Grandma Isiphine was not long for this world when the Alzheimer’s took her. What was unexpected about my Grandpa George’s death was that he died before Isiphine. He was old and frail, we just always assumed Isiphine would go first because of the Alzheimer’s. That, and Grandpa George was stubborn and had fairly pickled himself–we were sure he’d preserved himself with cheap hootch and he’d outlive us all.

When I was in junior high and high school, a few acquaintances died: one was killed when another teen ran a stop sign and hit her car; one celebrated graduating 9th grade by getting drunk with her step-brother and climbing to the top of the old drive-in. She fell. Another boy was riding his bike and was hit by a teen driving a pickup. She had taken her eyes off the road to change the cassette.

When I was in college, my friend Andrea hit another car headlong and killed the other driver and herself. I don’t think it was intentional, but she had been out with friends that night, had a fight with her boyfriend, and seemed to be on her way to our hometown late at night. None of those adds up to a good idea. A few years later, a friend’s brother was found in his van inside his garage.

If you talk to my brother, he has seen even more friends die. His list is very long, actually, and he’s not even 40 yet.

In March, we lost my uncle, Dan. My kids still ask me about the day I found out. They say they heard me crying and yelling. I don’t remember the yelling. I do remember the crying. I’m still crying.

I’ve handled each death a little differently, but I’ve never forgotten any of them. Sometimes I’ll be driving or walking or playing Solitaire on the computer and one of them will pop into my head.

I think of how horrible it must have been to be the boy that ran the stop sign. To know that he had been driving illegally (he wasn’t 16) and had killed someone his own age.

I think of how horrible it must be to know that you are responsible for getting your sister drunk then trying to save her as she fell. To reach out and grab her and pull back only wisps of her hair.

I think of what Andrea may have been thinking while driving home. Was she crying? Was she too tired and did she fall asleep? I feel terrible for her family and for the family of the woman she killed. It took me over 15 years to fully mourn Andrea. I dreamed of her off-and-on for that entire time. Those dreams were sometimes more painful than it was to attend her funeral before she was 20.

In those dreams we were still in high school. I would cry and cry because Andrea had died. Then it would come out that she had not died, but had been hiding. Everyone knew that she had been hiding, but she hadn’t bothered to tell me. I felt left out. I felt that she didn’t like me. I felt that I thought we were good friends, but that obviously was not the case or she would have let me in on her secret–as she had let everyone else in on it. I was furious and hurt. I woke up crying.

Eventually those dreams evolved. Instead of just hiding and not telling me, she was hiding from me. Everyone else in the dream would go to extreme measures to keep me from finding her. I thought she was dead. It turned out she would rather have me think she was dead than to deal with me or continue to be friends with me. When I found out, I was furious and hurt. I woke up crying.

Finally, one day two years ago in October, I dreamed the dream I had been waiting for: Andrea was actually dead. She wasn’t hiding. She wasn’t avoiding me. She wasn’t terminating our friendship. She was dead. I woke up relieved.

Since March I have thought about my Uncle Dan. I’ve thought about his children and his wife and how they feel day-to-day. I can’t imagine it, but I try.

I remember his funeral and how I cried so hard I had a migraine for two days. And I worried that people thought I was being disingenuous because I hadn’t ever really shown affection for Dan (or any of my uncles for that matter). But Dan was important to me because his family and mine were close while I was growing up. His kids played with me and my brother because we were closest in age. He and Muriel always let us stay at their house if we wanted to.

Last summer, he and Muriel allowed me to bring my own kids to their lake house and stay for a week. In the evenings, after I’d put the kids down, Dan would pour me a glass of wine while I read a book. Usually without asking me if I wanted one. He just knew I liked wine.

Since his death I’ve had dreams that focus on Dan. I’m usually sitting at a table with Muriel and there’s an empty chair. We know that Dan won’t be joining us, and we are crying. I wake up sad.

I hadn’t planned to write this post. But, as I was playing Pyramid Golf on the computer, Dan popped into my head. I heard his laugh. And I missed it. Even though I completely took it for granted every time I heard it.

Tagged as: Family, Iowa, mourning