Death and grief

Approximately one year ago one of my aunts died after a long and bravely fought battle with breast cancer. She went on chemo multiple times, and often it seemed she would beat it. Unfortunately, after being in remission, it returned, and spread throughout her body. Eventually, the doctors informed her and her family that it was terminal. She could fight it some more, and perhaps live a while longer . . . or not. She chose not. She felt better without treatment than she did with the treatment, and she didn't want her final days to be miserable. I cannot blame her at all, and might very well have made the same choice.

I was not able to be there at the end. I tried, but she died before I could get to her and the rest of my family. Still, she died with her closest brother and husband at her side, and my understanding is that she had a smile on her face, no pain, and went peacefully. She had accepted it.

I didn't know her well, but the days following still were not easy for me. I cried, a lot. I would be doing fine one moment, and the next I would remember something about her, and burst into tears. At one point, it just suddenly popped into my head that she was the first to ever use the phrase "29 forever" in my presence. I had asked her how old she was, because she seemed so young, and her response was "29 forever." I loved it. She told me her actual age after a moment, but I don't remember what it was, and don't care. I still sometimes use that phrase, now that I've passed my original 29th birthday more than once. Such a simple memory, but how could I not grieve at the loss of the one who gave it to me?

She was the joker in the family. I have other aunts and uncles, and all love to make each other laugh, but never was there so much laughter as when she was around. Whenever I saw her, she just seemed so vibrant, even with all her hair gone from the chemo. I miss her. I hardly ever saw her when she was alive, but now that I can never see her again, I miss her. Even now, I sometimes tear up when I think of her (such as right now).

Life moves on of course, and though there's still pain, it's a dull ache, no longer a crushing weight that makes breathing hard. Sometimes I don't want to remember, because it hurts, but that does nothing to honor her. And her memory deserves honoring. I miss you Naomi.

Response to "Baby, You're a Firework!--Humanism and the Hereafter"

Temple of the Future has a new post entitled "Baby, You're a Firework!--Humanism and the Hereafter." I responded in the comments with a comment of such length, I had to apologize, as it should have been a blog post that I referenced instead. So, I'm going to copy & paste it here, after you follow that link and read James's post.

Ready? Good.

Beautifully written, with wonderful, evocative imagery. When you say “We promote science and skepticism – though more poetically than most,” you clearly mean it, and I quite enjoy it.

Unfortunately, I disagree entirely.

I find meaning in life, yes. I find love and wonder and hope, yes. But the brevity of life I find to be an annoyance sticking in the back of mind, like an itch in the center of your back that you can’t . . . quite . . . reach. It’s an annoyance that if I ponder it too much will turn to frustration. To paraphrase Hitchens, it’s like knowing that I will have to leave the party, well before the party is over.

What I want is immortality, physical immortality. I am not satisfied or comforted by the idea that people may remember me, whether through fame or children. Though fireworks are beautiful, I prefer to stare into a longer lasting campfire, perhaps contemplating, perhaps just… relaxing. I want to be alive when the sun expands to into a red giant, engulfing the earth as I watch from a safe distance. I want to watch my great-great-great-great-etc grandchildren grow and laugh and cry and love and do all that people do.

I consider the shortness of my life, of the lives of loved ones, of the lives of hated ones, and colors become duller, the purple majesty of the mountains loses the power to stun, and the significance of any one action, or life, seems as a spark in the wind, rather than a blaze.

Having said all that, perhaps you will not believe me when I say the following: I love life. I LOVE life. I have known a despair and depression so great that I had the note written and the knife at my wrist. Another time I swallowed pills and chased them with alcohol. And another time before that I admitted myself to a psych ward for a day, because I knew what I would do if I didn’t. I did not love life for those years.

But I survived. Because I survived, I have loved and laughed and danced and sang and had sex and had more pain and then loved and laughed some more. And I’ve learned. Oh, the wonders I have learned! About life’s ever changing, ever evolving diversity! About the strange, strange behavior of particles so small I cannot comprehend it! About stars and galaxies crashing together, releasing energies so vast and immense that not even the sun compares!

And the wonders I’ve yet to learn! What will life be in a million years? How can the descriptions of stellar movements and the tiniest of particles be reconciled? I want to know! I want to be here when I find out! I want to call my friends and family, saying “hey, did you hear about…?” I want science to get off it’s ass and make that dream a reality (oh, how I hope for that)!

Until that day, life’s brevity shall annoy me. But, if you will allow me but another moment, I’d like to quote Tim Minchin: “But here’s what give me a hard on: I am a tiny, insignificant, ignorant bit of carbon. I have one life, and it is short and unimportant, But thanks to recent scientific advances… I get to live twice as long as my great-great-great-great uncleses and auntseses. Twice as long! to live this life of mine; twice as long to love this wife of mine. Twice as many years of friends, and wine, of sharing curries and getting shitty at good looking hippies with fairies on their spine and butterflies on their titties.”

 Addendum: One thing I didn't address, but should have, is James's final paragraph, wherein he says:

You could do great things in service to others, as Adams did, and as many others have. So come on – show ‘em what you’re worth! Let your colors burst! Make ‘em go “Ah, ah, AH!” as you shoot across the sky! Leave them all in awe! And when, inevitably, those colors begin to fade, and your trajectory tilts downward back toward earth, do not despair. Do not seek solace in another life for which we have no evidence. Instead remember that you live on, etched onto the retinas of those who watched your marvelous display.

Let nothing that I have said stop you from doing this! That is all.

Bin Laden is dead, should I be glad?

My first emotion on hearing the news was excitement, eagerness to hear the President confirm it, and a certain amount of "finally." But then I did what I occasionally do, and thought.

I started thinking that a man is dead, gone forever. A human life has been snuffed out. Should I be glad? True, it's a relief that Osama Bin Laden is no longer capable of threatening America or the world. True, he's responsible for thousands of deaths, and much suffering. True, getting him has been a goal of the USA since even before the 9/11 attacks. Still, should I be glad?

There are pragmatic reasons to think it would have been better were he captured alive. Dead, he becomes a martyr. Alive and on trial, he could've been shown as merely human. Also, though a severe long shot, there is a small chance we could've gathered more information from him. If we had captured him alive, it would've been easier to silence those who are already questioning (at least on my Facebook account) whether it was really him. But those are simply "gee, it would've been nice . . . " concerns, and sometimes in military operations, you just have to take the shot.

What of ethical concerns? Because this is where the thought really leads for me: ethically, is it good that someone, even Bin Laden, died? I have held for a long time that life is (for want of a better word) sacred. We have one very brief life, and when it's done, it's done. There is nothing more after this. Frankly, if there were an afterlife, I suspect that killing another would be easier to justify (I'm not going to bother arguing against that link, Greta Christina did a great job already). But, there is no afterlife. No hell for Bin Laden to go to, and no heaven either. All that remains of him is memory. Memory is powerful of course, but he no longer is concerned with that.

There's a saying in Jewish tradition that "To end one life is to destroy the world entire."  To forcibly take another's life destroys something precious, something wonderful. Our lives are our own, and should not be taken from us by another without consent, even less than our property, our freedom, or our innocence. If we kill a criminal, all possibility of them making amends is gone. If we kill a murderer, all possibility of them learning how wrong that action was is gone. Yes, all possibility of further evil perpetrated by that man or woman is gone as well, but the cost is simply not worth it.

Yet, I do not think it is always and everywhere unethical to take a life. One of my high school instructors, a Christian, believed that it was, but when asked said that she would kill to protect her children, even if it meant going to hell. I find myself agreeing with her that I would kill to protect my loved ones, even if it meant going to a hellish prison. Defense of life is a situation where killing can be justified, but should still be avoided whenever possible. If you've an option between a gun or a taser, use the taser. When defending life, you are defending the very thing that is so precious and important, against someone who is seeking to end it. Sometimes, the only possible defense, and therefore the only possible ethical choice, is to kill. But should I be glad that a life is gone?

No.

James Croft had his own thoughts on the matter, and I find myself in agreement with his conclusion: "we might accept that, sometimes, it is necessary for a person to be killed to ensure the welfare of others. But we should never celebrate that decision."


Yet a part of me is glad Bin Laden's dead, and another part is ashamed of that feeling. I'm not sure what to do with that, but there it is.


Anyone else have a thought on this?