Oh death, where is thy sting?
Posted: Sun Jan 15, 2023 8:47 pm
I think I’ve gotten a pretty good handle on the second question of the familiar couplet — the part about graves and victories. Like the house at a casino, the grave always wins. And if humans ever figure out how to beat the house, it will be long after the final score in Grave v. Res Ipsa has been forgotten. And I think I’m okay with that.
But I don’t think I have any sort of handle at all on that first question. I mean, literally I know at least one place where the sting is located — it’s been in my gut for about a month. The part I don’t have a handle on is why.
The sting took up residence in my gut early last month. I opened up my Facebook page to catch up with friends and family and the first entry announced the death of Ms. Ipsa’s best friend. They had been best friends since Jr. High school in England. At some point “B” was diagnosed with a degenerative spinal condition with a dismal prognosis. But B seemed to seemed to ignore the dismal part and proceeded to run up a huge early lead in B v. Grave.
Ms. Ipsa was an Air Force brat born in Waco Texas, and her family eventually returned to the U.S., while B stayed in England. Though they saw each other infrequently, they stayed close. Our two children called her Auntie B. When she would send Christmas crackers or other small treats at Christmas Time, they would chant “Yay Auntie B” Over and over.
Early in our marriage, B came to visit twice. She was a truly delightful person. We threw her collapsable wheelchair in the trunk and toured everywhere. I remember driving up Mt. Eirie in Skagit County — more of a rocky spire that the glaciers somehow forgot to flatten long ago. She loved the view.
When she tired, we’d hang around the house and drink tea. She had a dry wit that I could listen to forever. And, in fact, listen is what I mostly did. Listening to the two of them talk was sheer joy: The person I loved most in the world talking and reminiscing with one of the people she loved most in the world. Their combined laughter was almost musical.
So there, starting up at me from the screen of my phone, was a post by B’s father announcing her death. And no matter how I squinted at it, blinked my eyes, or glanced away and back, the post refused to go away. Then I looked up at Ms. Ipsa sitting three feet away, happily ensconced in a novel. No clue of how her world was about to change. So, yeah, sting. Big sting. Big as in a boot shaped stinger kicking me square in the gut.
The worst moments of my life have all involved telling someone that I loved that someone they loved had died. Picking up my father on a cold, snowy day at the Salt Lake Airport and telling him that his daughter had died of cancer while he was flying from Thailand to see her one last time. Calling my father-in law who was vacationing in Hawaii to tell him that his youngest son had been found dead in his apartment, followed by driving to the school where Ms. Ipsa teaches to tell her that her brother was gone.
And now telling the person I loved most that her lifelong friend was was gone.
Yeah, I knew exactly where death’s sting was that day: in my living room, in a house in England, and in other homes scattered across the world, all who interacted with B in thousands of different ways, for millions of different reasons, and for varying periods of time. The Facebook comments in response to the announcement were a monument to death’s sting.
And, although my entire experience of B was two weeks of visits and occasional exchanges on Facebook, the sting took me by surprise. It really hurt.
Little did I know that death was about to give me a small tutorial in stings. Perhaps to prepare me for other deaths — deaths that are not that far in the future.
Next: Death of a Nemesis.
But I don’t think I have any sort of handle at all on that first question. I mean, literally I know at least one place where the sting is located — it’s been in my gut for about a month. The part I don’t have a handle on is why.
The sting took up residence in my gut early last month. I opened up my Facebook page to catch up with friends and family and the first entry announced the death of Ms. Ipsa’s best friend. They had been best friends since Jr. High school in England. At some point “B” was diagnosed with a degenerative spinal condition with a dismal prognosis. But B seemed to seemed to ignore the dismal part and proceeded to run up a huge early lead in B v. Grave.
Ms. Ipsa was an Air Force brat born in Waco Texas, and her family eventually returned to the U.S., while B stayed in England. Though they saw each other infrequently, they stayed close. Our two children called her Auntie B. When she would send Christmas crackers or other small treats at Christmas Time, they would chant “Yay Auntie B” Over and over.
Early in our marriage, B came to visit twice. She was a truly delightful person. We threw her collapsable wheelchair in the trunk and toured everywhere. I remember driving up Mt. Eirie in Skagit County — more of a rocky spire that the glaciers somehow forgot to flatten long ago. She loved the view.
When she tired, we’d hang around the house and drink tea. She had a dry wit that I could listen to forever. And, in fact, listen is what I mostly did. Listening to the two of them talk was sheer joy: The person I loved most in the world talking and reminiscing with one of the people she loved most in the world. Their combined laughter was almost musical.
So there, starting up at me from the screen of my phone, was a post by B’s father announcing her death. And no matter how I squinted at it, blinked my eyes, or glanced away and back, the post refused to go away. Then I looked up at Ms. Ipsa sitting three feet away, happily ensconced in a novel. No clue of how her world was about to change. So, yeah, sting. Big sting. Big as in a boot shaped stinger kicking me square in the gut.
The worst moments of my life have all involved telling someone that I loved that someone they loved had died. Picking up my father on a cold, snowy day at the Salt Lake Airport and telling him that his daughter had died of cancer while he was flying from Thailand to see her one last time. Calling my father-in law who was vacationing in Hawaii to tell him that his youngest son had been found dead in his apartment, followed by driving to the school where Ms. Ipsa teaches to tell her that her brother was gone.
And now telling the person I loved most that her lifelong friend was was gone.
Yeah, I knew exactly where death’s sting was that day: in my living room, in a house in England, and in other homes scattered across the world, all who interacted with B in thousands of different ways, for millions of different reasons, and for varying periods of time. The Facebook comments in response to the announcement were a monument to death’s sting.
And, although my entire experience of B was two weeks of visits and occasional exchanges on Facebook, the sting took me by surprise. It really hurt.
Little did I know that death was about to give me a small tutorial in stings. Perhaps to prepare me for other deaths — deaths that are not that far in the future.
Next: Death of a Nemesis.