A few weeks ago my stepmother's best friend was killed in a car accident - a freak injury sustained when a Kia ran a red and broadsided her sturdy, German-built station wagon on a bright afternoon - the kind of accident that seems crazy, that makes a joke of the precautions we take to make ourselves safe. Out of nowhere. Dumb luck.
I was scared to get in my car for a few days, and sad for my stepmom, and, predictably, morbidly meditative.
We can comfort ourselves knowing she lived well, made a difference in people's lives, was loved, and went quickly without pain. This kind of death teaches us to cherish each day, settle old arguments, be kind. Everyone's time comes and everyone will lose loved ones. But there is no absolute value as to the how of life or death; all deaths are not equal. So how are they relative?
If we trust Six Feet Under, then "death exists to give life meaning." That's too much a platitude to feel true. What about murder victims? What about friendly fire? What about 7-year-olds with leukemia? What's the difference between a car accident, cancer, and dying of starvation in a prison cell or refugee camp? What if there's no lesson in death? What if there is no one around to appreciate life more deeply now that someone has died?
I worry sometimes that grieving is just a process by which we convince ourselves of life's meaning, despite there being no evidence as such, so that we don't go to each day in fear of our own oblivion. I worry that every adjustment we make to tolerate pain is just a way of acquiring ignorance, to position new blinders to block realities we are too weak to accept. If whatever doesn't kill you doesn't make you stronger, when there are no lessons, then suffering is meaningless, too. And, if that's all true, can you conceive of mortality in a way that is both comforting and authentic?
I am so full of shit.
3 comments:
not sure where to start on commenting-but there is a lot to chew on here.
xmum
where was it?
The accident? Campbell.
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