Here’s a novel idea. Why not visit someone you know and maybe even love when they were alive? Instead of waiting until they are dead to mourn and pay tribute, neither of which will affect the deceased in any form whatsoever, be there for them now.
It’s something that has long bothered me since I have, unquestionably, been one of those to stay away from a loved one or a friend (or both) in a state of decline when I know, and knew, I should have made the effort. But always, the perceived and even invented constraints of time got in the way. I just didn’t have the time, it was too far to travel; that kind of thing. I usually made it to the funeral, though.
What a wonderful person, I would say. Life is so unfair. They died far too young. All or some of these comments may have been true. But when it mattered, I was not always there for them. With my paternal grandfather, I was not there at all.
Alfred Johansen died, I seem to remember, in around 1994. I had long lost contact with him, something that was entirely my doing. That I was building a new life, still in the shadow of mental illness and discovering fatherhood myself, were not excuses. That I did not see him for many years before his death was, frankly, inexcusable on my part. I didn’t and don’t beat myself up about it, which perhaps I should have, but there is a part of me that feels a little shame. Frankly, so it should.
I went to his funeral, although I don’t remember a thing about it, and I was there when his ashes were scattered at Battery Point in Portishead. It may have been helpful for me and my conscience, but what good would it have been for the old boy who was dead? In fact, the lessons took some years to learn, but learn them I did. I say to an extent for a reason.
Of the four deaths of people in my life this year, two occurred in Canada. One surprised me, the other shocked me to the core. I was many thousands of miles away and could not have done anymore regarding contact. Of the deaths that happened closer to home, I am satisfied with my actions, that I could not have done anymore. Of the most recent loss, I felt I stepped up. Someone who had been more acquaintance than friend, who became a friend as death grew near. That is not me making a grand gesture of how great I am. That is me, someone who has in the past stood aside being, I hope, a better person.
I know only too well the power of social media. It is so much easier to send a virtual hug and cuddle, to urge someone to stay, and be, strong from cyberspace and not in the same room. I have been there, too, and sometimes that feels enough. Sometimes when you are far, far away, then maybe it is enough. When you are close by, then maybe it isn’t enough?
I will be attending yet another funeral next week. It is not an occasion I am looking forward to, but then, who in their right mind does look forward to a funeral? It will be sad, doubtless there will be tears and that is, obviously, the very nature of funerals. In this instance, I have already done my grieving, felt my sorrow, during the latter stages of the deceased’s life. In my mind, I have already said goodbye.
Decline and death comes to all of us in the end and I suppose we all deal with it in our own individual way. I can’t say for sure that I will always get it right – I certainly haven’t done in the past – but being there for someone who is alive and kicking beats being there for someone who isn’t. And the feeling that maybe, in some small way, you helped make someone’s final days better, or maybe just not so bad, beats sending an ‘in deepest sympathy’ card. It does for me and it’s one less flaw in the multi-flawed character I have become.
