Love

Just recently the wife of a friend of mine passed away after a long illness.

We do not know why she was selected for this or what the parameters are for such a selection.

We do not, really, know if there is a process whereby we are chosen as some sort of punishment or reward.

Some faiths believe that our moment of death is inscribed the moment we are born. That moment can never be known to us.

As far as we know it is a random event. To us. Equally, to us, it is personal.

Even if someone dies in a war having been shot by a sniper five hundred metres away; or if they are killed, as recently, by a drone strike, it is personal.

Everybody is loved by someone.

The raving terrorist, with several pounds of plastique strapped to him, who wishes to impose his views and will upon the rest of us, will be sorely missed by somebody who will grieve in his memory.

No matter the circumstances, having your life ripped out of your body is personal. Deeply personal.

When you remove somebody’s life in war or for some other reason, you are aware, somewhere in the back of your mind, that there will be people who will mourn that person’s death.

You know that it is personal and it is personal at the very deepest level.

Your own death is not something that you may be aware of at the time because death may be instantaneous. Even if it is lingering and painful there may be little reflection other than the question, “Why me?”

When my Mother died we were told to prepare for it. It was inevitable and it would be soon. She was, after all, 94 and at the end of a period in which she had Alzheimer’s. Mum had little idea of who she was, certainly no clue who anyone else was (except our son—she always remembered his name) and little idea of whether it was night or day; time had no relevance to her at all.

Her reality was her own; it was one in which there were few people other than those from some dim and unclearly seen past.

Yet, when she slipped quietly from us, the grief was palpable.

It was personal.

Not for Mum—she was gone. It was personal, now, for us. Those that were left behind; the people that she no longer knew.

We are advised, upon occasion, of the passing of somebody famous. Mostly, the death of these persons means little to us. Just a raise of the eyebrows and a muttered, “Oh, really?”

But some, a few, will cause us to care. We will rarely grieve, per se, but we will be sad.

Why?

Because, with their death, they will take something from us. Freddy Mercury and Whitney Houston, for example, took their voices away from us. Robin Williams took his humour.

These are tragedies.

On a personal level I was struck hard by the passing of Isaac Asimov, Arthur C Clarke, Carl Sagan and, more recently, Terry Pratchett. There will be no more stories from these minds.

Their minds and talents have left us.

In every case, when we clutch the body of a loved one and weep—begging for that person to return to us, we are holding on to a shell.

The person that was there has gone. Everything that was that person in terms of character, gifts, thoughts, emotions and, most of all, love—gone.

You are clinging on to a container that has been drained. The systems have shut down, the brain is empty.

And yet we must. We cling to some forlorn hope that it is all a bad dream; that the loved one will return when, in the deepest recesses of our hearts, we know that it is hopeless. They are gone.

Yes. It is personal.

Every time.

Without exception.

Time never heals. We do not forget. We just have to cope the best we can. If prayer helps you, then pray. Use whatever crutch you can.

That is what time will do. Help us to deal with it.