Tag: death

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CONTENT WARNING: death, death mention


This weekend, I saw someone die on the shore.


The asterisk: it was very likely they died on the shore. But I hope they didn’t.


I was distracted– trying not to lose the hat I borrowed– when my partner noted a crowd gathering not too far from where we were . When I saw someone laying on the sand, not moving, I stopped frolicking.


I stood there, unsure, not wanting to stare but concern grew in me. I checked it carefully for any hints of morbid curiosity. The waves crashed at my back, pushing me to return to land and I do so; the higher waves weren’t fun anymore. I look around self-consciously, and I was not the only one to leave. Maybe they thought the same that I did– that being in the water still having fun while someone was dying seemed… wrong.


I sat where the shore was dark-wet sand, a compromise between needing the comfort of nature and the Wrongness I felt if I stayed in deeper waters. Two women walked by, asking of anyone else knew CPR. I apologized for not knowing. People were taking turns. The crowd grew. This Someone still hadn’t stirred.


I focused on the sand-wave combination burying my feet.


I tried to fit the experience to my intrusive thoughts earlier in the day: don’t go too far, remember the riptides, don’t go too deep, I can’t lose you.


I thought, how would the world be like if everyone stopped what they were doing and acknowledged a life in peril or a life possibly lost. Overt, Obvious, Empathy.


I thought of that Buffy episode where she couldn’t call her deceased mom “The Body” and I also refused to call Someone “The Body” holding out for as long as I could while people were still doing CPR.


Someone started waving their arms; the medical team arrived with their direction. Minutes after, the police were on the scene as well. We decided to leave. Our beach bag was almost in the way of the med’s four-wheeler. I felt guilty, and promised I would not have been mad if they ran it over. I couldn’t help but say, “I hope they’re okay.” And there was an apology; because it was likely they really, really weren’t going to be.


But I was compelled to hope. Hope that Someone would pull through.


When we left, they were still doing CPR. I think. I saw a stretcher. I don’t remember much else.


At the back of the resort, we rinsed off our feet. Someone at the gate asked questions.


And then I hear it: “She was my friend.”


I can’t say what hasn’t been said before, already. About death, I mean. But my experience is still uniquely my own, at least through only my eyes and the thoughts attached to what I saw– my personalized reminders of our morality.


A morbid, juxtaposed footnote for a wonderful beach trip celebrating our birthdays.


It isn’t as haunting as I thought it would be. But maybe “haunting” is just too strong a word for the effect.


The day after, I checked online for any news of the incident. And two days later it did float into my mind as I was rinsing my grapes. And it is the sole subject of this post.


I suspect it will come up again, the next time I visit the beach. Or I’ll give into the urge to resume my news search.


I’m wondering if I am the “right amount” of haunted.

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My grandmother was dying when I penned this post.

There is a lot of what my mother bitterly calls it, drama, concerning the surrounding circumstances. But most of it is not important; what matters at this moment is how she does not want any of this drama when the time comes for her to require elderly care, and when she passes away.

"Please, put me in a home." I know. Unlike her sister, I will do the responsible thing and recognize that I can be no caregiver. "And I do not want a viewing." Give me flowers while I am living. We agree on that. She does not want the "song and dance" of the whole funeral thing and knowing her family, "song and dance" would be the understatement of the decade. She doesn’t even want a gravestone. "Cremate me. Or donate my body to science. I’m already an organ donor." She even suggests, if she ever succumbed to dementia like her mother, to pump her full of LSD and, hm, let her go. "If I’m going out, I want to have a good time."

Jokes aside, no one likes to think about their mother dying.

So the topic turned to other things– in hindsight– a segue. Mom had recently visited the attic to retrieve the vinyl collection. As an avid user of Spotify and iTunes, she no longer felt the need to keep them around and was going to donate them. And the packrat that I am (my VHS collection can attest to this), I snatched them up.

We went through the entire stack. Some I’ve never seen before (growing up, I was more interested in the growing technology that was the Compact Disc; the vinyls were safe from my pillaging), but some I recognized as the art the covered the living room wall. From Talking Heads to Prince, Michael Jackson and ZZ Top and AC/DC and… albums about… drag racing? That one took me by surprise.

Some are certainly damaged. Others scratched. Others still, missing covers in the dusty stack. Covers missing records.

While I did joke about selling The Beatles’ White Album, I knew they weren’t going anywhere. Especially with mom’s words in my ears, about leaving nostalgic tokens of love behind.

There was a story for most of them: going to the record store after watching The Wall, her singing a few bars of Lovin’ You, some albums she had while growing up, and some I remember fondly as cool stuff on the walls.

These stacks of albums tell a story of what my parents experienced and loved. It is another thing I can hold, memories of weight I can feel and thumb through.

When the time comes I will let her go, but I’ll hang onto Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk album for a while longer.

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“I deal with my pain by writing.”


That is how the original draft began. This is what I said to my girlfriend an hour ago.


It’s still true.


And it’s been a week. A typical, stressful week: I had 17 dollars to my name until payday, work sucked slightly more than usual, that monthly hormone nonsense, and bad news.


I thought things would be okay. I got a new lamp for my bedroom. I had a date. I had another date. Payday happened and I could pay my bills. I know a little more of what I want to do with this blog. Living with my nesting partners is still going smoothly.


We received news that he was conscious and in a walker and had grits and coffee and did a few more tiny Facebook posts.


A part of me knew that the prognosis still held. I know that all too well. They gave my dad 6 months but he managed to stay with us a year longer.


But still I thought he’d be home again, drinking rum and recalling times when he had to pull out a Sharp Pointy to prove a uh, point.


When he passed on, I was on a date. I wanted to be a present as possible– I was preoccupied and 10 minutes late– when the date mentioned spiced rum and orange juice I had a feeling– I was still reeling from having to call 911 for someone going through heroin withdrawals moments before said date arrived–


(A stealth edit: The life/death juxtaposition still holds. You died, and I’m trying to live a little more.)


I’m sorry I was late.


The news came to me after finally digging and scrolling through Facebook’s shitty algorithm. The last of our rum was in a tiny cup on the altar being lit by one candle because I had a feeling.


I haven’t deeply cried again, not yet. I’ve had a week to prepare. So it may be another week before I do. Or maybe I’m not used to other people seeing me cry like that, at home.


I received a text from said date; they weren’t feeling a connection and wished me the best. But life goes on, even if it’s a little dimmer without a friend in it.


Even if we weren’t close, but were fire-forged in such a way that’s unique to people who haven’t got around to meeting in person, but still shined through to each other.


Sometimes family is chosen and the distance doesn’t matter.


Sometimes you don’t realize who your chosen family is until they pass away and you realize “friend” is just out of habit but not quite strong enough.


Sometimes a draft is almost perfect and enough:


“Knowing” is relative. We’re Facebook friends. We were in the same group. We had a lot of mutuals in common. … Their posts and presence always brought a smile to my face.


I don’t know what to say.


Other, better people have said it better.


I feel like I’m too late. All of my gratitude, my thanks, my love– I should have expressed it more when they weren’t on their deathbed and now they’re gone.


I never write on Facebook walls; I did a few days ago.


I love you. I’ll miss you. We all will miss you.


My world genuinely grows darker without you in it.


And anyone that says Internet Friends aren’t real? They don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Facebook just shrunk the world, that’s all. …This is impacting me as if we were only a short drive away.


Remember, everyone, you touch people. No matter how slight it is.


And as with every death, the emotional cycle: anger at someone so good being taken away, sadness at not doing more, utter fear of losing my loved ones, the reminders that sound like shallow platitudes but actually need to be said again and again, so we don’t forget.


Because it’s really easy to forget when you’re thinking about bills and feeding the cat and that damn neighbor throwing trash in your fucking yard and that date you wished worked out a little better or the supervisor you’ll have to deal with Monday.


Here are some of your reminders:


  • Love hard.
  • Tell people you love them. Often.
  • Reach out.


And no matter how small an impact, you still made an impact to somebody. Your passing will always affect someone in this world.