A hard goodbye
Today Katie and I sent Elwood across the rainbow bridge.
He was 9 and a half years old, which was a good age for a dane. His health had been in continual gradual decline for the last several years and last weekend we both agreed the time had come. The meds weren't helping as much and his mobility was only worsening.
This past week has been rough with a lot of tears. We'll miss the big guy forever. But we were there with him, holding and loving him as he drifted off to sleep.
We're okay. Emotional, of course. But we know he was suffering and now he's not.
Keanu Reeves' comment about what happens to us after we die rings in my ears, "I know the ones who love us will miss us." And we will miss that big lovable oaf for the rest of our days.
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27 years since Carl Sagan died
"When my husband died, because he was so famous and known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me ― it still sometimes happens ― and ask me if Carl changed at the end and converted to a belief in an afterlife.
They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again. Carl faced his death with unflagging courage and never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don't ever expect to be reunited with Carl.
But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief and precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting.
Every single moment that we were alive and we were together was miraculous-not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance.
That pure chance could be so generous and so kind. That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space and the immensity of time. That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me and it’s much more meaningful.
The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other and our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don't think I'll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful."
― Ann Druyan
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Day of Remembering
Nine years ago today, I was at work when I got a call that I feared would come. My father had died after years of battling cancer. I sat in a meeting room and cried until a friend helped me get in motion, we called my wife to pick me up as I wasn't in any state to drive, and I took the next few days off to mourn and grieve and process.
The truth is I've never been a stranger to death. I lost my best friend when I was ten years old to a heart malformation, and now that I am nearly forty, death is becoming a more regular occurrence among people I know.
I've made today the Day of Remembering for me. Holiday is too strong a word; it's just a day for me to sit and remember those who I've lost during my life. Refresh their memories, keep them alive inside me. Nothing ornate and complicated, I just think back over my life and reconnect with those that are gone.
Each year that list of people grows a bit longer, but that only makes it more important that I do this for myself, and for them.
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‘Brothermine’
The following is what I wrote as I processed my grief for my sister at her passing, which I read (mostly) during her memorial last weekend.
It was the week before her death, Jennifer called me from the hospital, giving me the update on what she was going through. We talked about how she was doing, the prognosis and plan, about how Katie and I were doing; but towards the end of our conversation we talked about books. I remember she mentioned she had been reading a lot and she mentioned both Tad Williams and Isaac Asimov. I have only read one or two Tad Williams books, though I've read many more Asimov. We moved on in our chat and soon enough we hung up, intending to talk again soon.
I tried to call her a few days later to see how she was doing but she didn't answer. Little did I know that Williams and Asimov would be the last thing we would speak about.
Given that, as I wrestled with the reality of her passing and my emotions, I found myself drawn to those authors as a bridge to hold onto as I worked through my mourning and grief. I went looking for quotes by them and was struck by this quote from Tad Williams.
"The wisdom of our parents, grandparents, ancestors. In each individual life, it seems, we must first reject that wisdom, then later come to appreciate it."
Wisdom is a fickle thing, and it is up to each of us to be open to the wisdom of those who came ahead of us and who lived life. To me, Jennifer lived this quote, going through a period of her life rejecting the wisdom of our parents and grandparents, but eventually coming around to, well, some of it. I don't think it's a surprise to anyone here that my sister could be... stubborn.
She taught me a lot, both directly and indirectly as well as both up close and from afar. One thing she never taught me was how she managed to be my elder sibling while also managed to somehow remain only 21 years old for something like 30 years or so...
But, I digress, I did learn a lot from Jennifer. I learned, as you'll hear, about love, family, and passion. And I also learned a lot about what not to do as I went through adolescence and into adulthood learning from the road she blazed being a rebel. I watched the path she took and learned what I could from it; from her.
And, as I wrote this, I kept thinking of the affectionate turn of phrase for how she would refer to me and our brothers: "brothermine." That and sistermine. They were words emblematic of how she operated and viewed her family. We were hers. As a family, we were hers.
She loved us, and despite our differences at times, she was quick to remind us that if someone messed with one of us they were going to deal with all of us.
Jennifer loved us all, but without question, she most loved and was most proud of her children and her grandchildren.
COVID was rough for us all, and during that time we started having family Zoom calls to stay in touch through it. They filled a small bit of the needed socializing in the heart of the pandemic.
I'll always remember how her entire face lit up and her voice raised in pitch at the sight of her kids and grandkids on the call. She loved fiercely and openly. Another lesson I take to heart from her.
This brings me to the second quote I found which spoke to me. This one, from Isaac Asimov, "Someone who dies leaves his work behind and that does not entirely die. It never entirely dies as long as humanity exists." For Jennifer, this work IS her children and grandchildren.
Jennifer was passion incarnate. She lived life on her terms and despised all which stood between her doing that.
Death is the ultimate unfairness. A fact this family is all too familiar with. There is an unfairness to life that those who are most important to us all leave at some point. Children lose parents. Jennifer lost her birth mother, Jackie, in 1976. At the age of 12. And a loss like that leaves a mark on you. Then, she lost her adoptive mother, my mother, Dale, in 2007. Our father died in 2014. And last year she lost the love of her life, Bill.
We're no strangers to loss, and yet it never gets any easier. This is the way of it. The journey we each go on.
And this is a reminder to each of us to passionately fight for the time we have with one another, never forgetting that each moment, each hug, each laugh, and each phone call, might be the last we get with one another.
Tad Williams, again proving himself a quotable author, wrote, "We are none of us promised anything but the last breath we take." And it is true. It is on us to fight for everything along the way to that final breath.
Jennifer lived a full life. She touched all of us here. She brought four wonderful people into this world, who together, are finding their own ways through life. Facing their own challenges. Making their own journeys. Journeys which, today, are steeper, scarier, and darker than they were while she was with us.
But, as she would be quick to point out to us all, you're not alone. You have each other. You have us. We are a family, we are friends, and we're here for you. You just need to call and we'll be there, by your side, ready to help however we can with whatever is needed.
Jennifer's passion, and love, lives on in each of us.
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Some can opt for 'Terramation' rather than being cremated or buried in a casket
Came across this with news that Vermont became the fourth state to allow this post-death treatment (along with Washington, Oregon, and Colorado.) The website and company are based in Washington (not too far from me in fact.)
Essentially rather than being incinerated for cremation, they lay you in a plot and let your body decompose for 60 days. It reminds me about 'sky burial' practices. There is something very charming about the idea of having your body literally returned to the earth in this way rather than held forever in a casket.
The site is heavily slanted towards getting people to try and be activists about allowing this practice given how it is still heavily limited in where it can be done. I did find it interesting that they call out that they will refuse some individuals, largely relating to death by disease. Presumably out of caution as they cannot be certain the illness would not be carried forward in the soil after death.
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Who owns Einstein? The battle for the world’s most famous face
An interesting look at the legal world surrounding likeness protection after death, specifically looking at how it has been handled in the case of Albert Einstein.
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Day of Remembrance
This is my friend Mike. Mike and I were a tandem duo when we started at Wizards. He was the editor and I was the content manager / wrangler.
This photo was taken 7 years ago and I am so incredibly thankful my friend Aideen took it. I don't have many photos of Mike and I, he was very camera shy, almost always opting to be in the background when given the choice.
Mike died a few years ago. He was due back to work but never showed up. This was a notable event such that on the drive home, while carpooling with another friend, I swung by his house to see if he was there. When he wasn't, I knew something had gone wrong but had no idea what and I never thought he was actually gone.
After dropping my carpool buddy off at his house, I was actually heading back to the office. I was going to go out to dinner with my new boss, but on my drive there Mike's ex-wife called me and asked me to pull over. She let me know Mike had died in a car crash. I was broken. I called my wife and she told me to call our friend who I had just dropped off rather than try to drive home. He and his wife picked me up and drove my car back to the house. We ended up with a dozen people coming over and sharing a bit of a wake and working through our feelings. I remember it all very vividly.
Remembering it, and my times with Mike, are extremely important to me. In fact, remembering the lives and relationships of all the people close to me who have died is important to me. And, as I get older, as is the nature of this thing we call life, it gets harder and harder.
I've long thought that I need a day, a defined day of the year, that I treat as my own day of remembrance. For Mike. For my parents. For my grandparents. For my brothers-in-law. For my childhood friend.
I know of some cultural holidays which are similar, but I don't want to just take them as my own. They aren't mine or my culture. Maybe it's also that, honestly, I want to own what this day is. I don't want to work in the confines or framing of an existing cultural holiday, but this is a day for me and my memories.
I've had this idea for a while but have never been able to settle on a date for it. I don't know what day is the right day. I could pick the day someone close to me died and use that as an anchor, but then it feels to me like it's too much about that person. And if I pick a day that is just a random one on the calendar, it feels like it doesn't have enough meaning.
As I write this though, I realize that today makes a good choice for a day. It isn't the day of Mike's passing. It's a day remembering him because of a hike I, he, and some of our friends, took.
Today will be my annual Day of Remembrance. A day for me to take time, and sit back, and remember the good times I had with so many.
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A really entertaining series of questions and answers about death and the business of dealing with corpses
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On Mourning
Yesterday was the sixth anniversary of the death of a friend and coworker. As I go through my Facebook memories I came across this philosophical post about the mourning process and I felt it was worth sharing here again:
Today I came to realize that the reality about the mourning process is that it is all about repeatedly falling down the emotional rabbit holes and then forcing yourself to eventually climb back out. And you do it over and over and over again.
The goal isn't to not fall down, it's to fall down and get back up each and every time. You might hurt, in fact you will hurt, when it happens. You'll get the wind knocked out of you. You'll ache. You'll get angry. You'll get confused. You'll find yourself snippy for no reason. This is you climbing back out of a hole and shaking off a demon.
Whether you make the climb from the sanctity of your home, or in the midst of a crowded bar, or while kneeling in front of a chicken coop in the zoo - it's important to understand this is part of the process.
I am so thankful I got to spend the day today surrounded by wonderful people who could share in my heartache and pain, and selfishly who could help buoy me as I hope I buoyed a few of them.
Tomorrow's another day. We have to keep going. He wants us to keep going.
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