September 25, 2006

In The Wake Of The Reaper

Death. It’s not a subject people want to talk about, and it certainly isn’t one about which I profess to be an expert. But it’s hitting me like a ton of bricks lately.

Six weeks ago my brother died at the age of thirty-nine. It wasn’t a traumatic death, nor was he sick. Okay, I take all that back. His death has been very traumatic, and he was suffering from something unforeseen, even by his doctor. He just tipped over as a result of massive pulmonary embolism – blood clots of the lungs.

I’ve been doing a lot of crying these past few weeks. I only had thirty-nine years to get to know him and happy memories make me miss him to tears. Not only must I endure my own grieving, but I also have to bear the grief of my family. It is almost too much to tolerate, and yet we all manage to see the sunrise day after day. It doesn't seem fair that the sun is rising without my brother being around to see it.

Only within the past week have I found the slightest motivation to redevelop a daily routine for myself. The experts say routine is a good way to heal and to affirm our own lives, so I must be on the right track.

Just when I have assured myself that living my own life is not disrespectful to my brother’s loss of it, Boyfriend tells me his mother has cancer. This is not only the time I must pick up the shattered remains of myself, but I now have to go through another traumatic life experience, watching Boyfriend process the fact that his mother may be dying.

Things have definitely been put into perspective in the last six weeks. Not much gets me riled. I'm tolerant. I'm insightful. I'm empathetic. Will my edge ever resurface from beneath this all-loving persona that has taken over my body? The angry little me couldn’t have disappeared simply due to a couple of life-altering occurrences, could it? I miss seeing the stupidity in people while I behave calmly tolerant. Instead of angst I engage in and embrace serene thoughts of divine purpose and afterlife.

Have life’s recent events made me a better person? Or have I failed in being authentic to my impatient and cynical self as a result of some sentimental glitch in my circuitry?

Damn these mysteries of life.

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