Mortality

"All the complexities and games

No one wins, but somehow, they still play

All the missing crooked hearts

They may die, but in us they live on"

["Future Days", Pearl Jam]

Last weekend a friend lost a brother to a heart attack.  When it first came to my attention that he'd lost  someone, I didn't know who that someone was, and when a quick search on obituaries turned up someone in their 50s, my mind naturally gravitated to "must be an uncle".  It was only later when I discovered it was his brother that I did the simple math in my own head and thought "he was about the same age as my brother".  On that same weekend, a good friend of mine received word a friend of his was rushed to hospital, also with a possible heart failure.  He was more fortunate, though he remains under observation for the time being.

These events made me realize that I've reached a new era of life.  When you're a child, grandparents and great aunts and uncles die.  As you get older, eventually you and the people around you start losing parents.  Have I reached that age where I need to ponder the mortality of friends and family of my own generation?

I've written before about both the recognition of one's own mortality as an important life lesson and that the notion of "carpe diem" is a novel thought but requires too much energy to be practical (but that's okay, really).  The world's most renowned teacher of "living in the moment" had a brain hemorrhage a few days ago.  (He survived and is recovering.)

As an Apathetic-Agnostic-Taoist-with-a-touch-of-BuddhismTM, one of the glaring weaknesses of my faith is my inability to convince myself or anyone else that there's some grand meaning behind it all, which, unfortunately, makes me a pretty shitty friend when it comes to consoling people, though I have a system I do my best to follow.  I wish there was more I could do.

That fact of the matter is, that while I accept I'm not going to be around forever, and neither is Liza-Ann, all my friends and family, and so on, I hardly feel satisfied and I'm certainly not ready to cash in my chips.  It's not because I have some lofty vision of some laudable goal I haven't accomplished yet; I won't be curing cancer or inventing a better light bulb.  But after a rough start, I've finally reached a point in my time here where I'm pretty content with the life I've carved out for myself, and "growing old with Liza-Ann" and "watching Olivia grow up" are two of the only things on a very short, simple bucket list, and both require my continued existence for some years to come.

So as an AATw/toB (Note to self: I need a better acronym), prayer is out, but I'll take my pills, and my vitamins, and go get some exercise raking those leaves in the yard before a friend shows up for a board game.  When you don't believe in a divine plan, you get to pick your own reasons.  I've had the house to myself all weekend and I've spent a considerable part of it doing housework, just to see that moment of relief on my lover's face when my girls get back from camping.

Totally worth it.

"So persistent in my ways,

Hey angel, I am here to stay

No resistance, no alarms, 

please this is just too good to be gone

I believe,

And I believe 'cause I can see,

Our future days,

Days of you and me"

["Future Days", Pearl Jam]

Stand Close

"the local ex-rapist 

the kids call 'the pumpkin'

scream as the drunks from 

The Sports Bar come callin'

and they kick in his front door,

and they beat him down howlin'"

["Dog Back", The Pathological Lovers]

I lived across the street from the lead singer of that band at the time he wrote the song.  These events must have happened while we lived there.  They don't come as a surprise to me at all.  Years back, when a house across the street caught fire, men were banging on doors over there and shouting to the people inside, but the only reason I bothered to go look was because the unintelligible shouting didn't include the word "whore" sporadically thrown in, so I knew something must be up.  (Astounding how often it was followed by 'I can't believe you fucked my brother'...)

I grew up in that neighborhood and lived there several times after.  I was glad to be out of it, though I have my doubts sometimes as to whether my new one is actually all that much better.  It's getting so much harder to tell.  When I see the news, or the things some people post on Facebook, I remind myself constantly it's not necessarily that things have gotten worse, but that we've gotten that much more informed.  In the move toward a "global village", we aren't all sharing the palaces, we're all becoming more familiar with the shitty hovels.  Journalists don't spend their days telling you about the wonderment and marvel of exciting and novel things on the other side of this incredibly large planet, places you'll never see and experience in your lifetime.  They may occasionally, and I'm grateful for the friend whose daily contribution to my Facebook feed is a scientific discovery or medical breakthrough, but the reality is that we are daily bombarded with bad news we don't require, can't do much about, and which is bound to grind us down and depress us.

And so in many ways I work to cut myself off from the world.  I try to refrain from reading comments sections on Youtube or news websites.  I stopped playing MMO games long ago because there are simply too many idiots in the world and the ones who don't want me to affirm my faith in Jesus want to discuss gun control.  I try to break my habit of checking the news online and yet find myself there daily, wondering what's going on in my city and taking assessment of how, if at all, it impacts me.  My Facebook feed is heavily filtered but the truly awful things are precisely the things that everyone posts about, and prattles on about, and eventually start arguing about.

I was both dismayed and pleasantly surprised these past few days by the events in Ottawa where a lone arsehole shot and killed a reservist, Cpl Nathan Cirillo,  Something was just a little different in the news coverage, at least the coverage out of Canada.  Something small, but significant.  Something that represents a hopeful shift, to my thinking.

In April of 2007, I wrote about Liviu Librescu.  I wrote that I wanted to live in a world where some arsehole with a gun gained no notoriety, but it was the heros names that were held up, passed around, published and praised.  I knew the name of Sergeant-at-Arms Kevin Vickers before I heard the name of the worthless shit with the rifle.  I've seen the names of Cirillo and Vickers throughout my Facebook feed and headlining new articles or blog posts.  I've seen their pictures, and heard a little about them, and was treated to a video of Vickers going back to work the next day to a standing ovation from the House of Commons, where the Canadian government, refusing to be intimidated by the cowardly act of this whackjob, resumed its work.  Credit where due: it's a step in right direction.  I honestly do not know the name of the shooter.  I don't want to.

It's hard not to be a little worried or saddened by what transpired, and I remind myself, as I often do in the face of bad news, that my goal, ultimately, is to surround myself with the right people, and the right conditions, to strive to find happiness and contentment, and to share it with as many of those as possible.  I have no delusions of grandeur.  I have no consuming career aspirations.  I want to live a comfortable and happy life surrounded by friends and family and retire somewhere peaceful and quiet (and with high speed internet so I can Skype my friends).  My biggest accomplishment this year will be the basement rec room Liza-Ann and I created (with much help from friends, especially Chris), for the enjoyment of the simple pleasures of board/card/video games with friends, my favorite pass-time in the world.  My most cherished memory in recent weeks came when I asked Olivia if she could remember being one, a time before I came into her life.

She said no, and smiled, and put her head on my chest.

"and when we die

oh no, the prices won't rise

and everyone will fit in the church just fine

but if we're standing close

then the world is good

look, the world is good

look, the world is good"

["Dog Back", The Pathological Lovers]

21

"You believed.

You believed in moments not conceived.

You believed in me.

A passionate spirit.

uncompromised,

boundless and open.

A light in your eyes, then, immobilized.
["Wings for Marie (part 1)", Tool]

I was a child when my mother died.  Yes, I was 21.  I'm sure at the time I thought myself an adult.  At 21, who doesn't?  But looking back now on how I was then, I'm certain I was still a child.  I'm 42 now, so it's half my lifetime ago.  Not precisely half, of course.  Not to the day.  That'd land on Canada Day this year.  I'll try not to remember.  So I've been on the planet now as long without her as with her, or at least I will be as of Canada Day, if we're splitting hairs.

Last month, my brother wrote about our parents, and part of it was about having "private quiet conversation's about life, the universe and everything" with our mother.  His experience of our mother and mine were very different.  He moved away nearer the beginning of the downward spiral of her health; I was there at the end.  Her healthy years during my lifetime mostly occurred when I was young enough that I can't remember them now.  I have no real memory of her driving or walking (though I remember one of the cars vaguely, somehow).  I don't remember canes.  Life starts for me with my mother using a walker or sitting in a wheelchair.  In some sense, Martin and I had very different mothers.  For him, he is troubled by memories of her after she was ravaged by MS.  For me, that MS-ravaged woman was my mother.  And for my sisters, some strange mix of the two, I suppose.

I'm not lamenting this fact, or at least not exactly.  It's just different, that's all.  If anything, I suppose my sisters, getting a bit of both, probably 'have it the worst', but it's not exactly the sort of thing where one keeps score.  I am a little jealous of my brother, in a way.  Those conversations he speaks of were something I didn't have much opportunity for, though there were a few here and there, in the fading years when talking was a lot of effort on her part.  Not that she wouldn't extend that effort - for her children, anything.  Everything she did was for us and for our father.  I do remember a few fun and interesting conversations when I was about nineteen.  I just wish there'd been time for more.

And whether he realizes it or not, Martin should be a little jealous of me too.  That MS-ravaged woman was a force of nature.  She was a more capable person as a quadriplegic than many able-bodied people I know.  She was a beacon of hope for us as much or more than we were for her.  She was the most relentless, determined person I have ever known, even in the face of insurmountable odds, and her fearlessness throughout that downward spiral will forever be an inspiration to me.  They say you learn more about a person's character in the bad times than the good, and during the worst of times, she was indomitable.

When I was a teenage boy and she had no use of her legs, and barely any use of her arms, I would sit on the kitchen floor with the cupboards open with her in the other room.  We'd shout back and forth.  She'd ask me how much of each thing we had, and when I told her, she'd tell me what to write down on the grocery list.  She was planning the week's meals in her head, and budgeting at the same time.  When the list was complete, she'd add it up in her head and tell me how much money it would cost.  She was always within about $3.  There were probably easier ways we could have done this; no one would dare suggest it.  Right up until the day she died, she was in charge.

I was 21.  It was sunny the next day.

I look back on 21 now and feel I was a child.  By whatever standards I can conceive for what it means to be an adult, I find myself at 21 lacking.  A few years later, things were very different.  Dealing with my mother's death was the most formative thing in my maturation, with second place so distant I can't even think of what it might be.  Coming to terms with her permanent absence in my life taught me a phenomenal amount about life, about love, about family, about friendship, about the world, about truth, about justice, about right and wrong, about everything.  Her death was, in some sense, her last and greatest gift to me.  It wouldn't be right to say I'm thankful for it; I miss her still.  But I am thankful for everything her passing taught me.

I've been thinking a lot about adulthood lately, about what that word means, exactly.  There are times when I feel "all grown up", maybe even "getting old", and yet there are times, just passing moments, when I still feel like an idiot man-child.  And age is certainly not what determines adulthood.  There are plenty of idiot man-children and woo-girls at my age.

It's not about paying bills or washing your own clothes, or at least not exactly, though those are sure to be a part of it.  It's not truly about owning a car or house or apartment, though again, they'll be a part of it too.  It's not about having a job.  It's not about being able to buy for yourself the things you relied on others for before.

Being an adult is about nothing that children think it is and look forward to; it's about everything they'll fumble to figure out after they already think they've arrived.  It's about discipline more than freedom, responsibility more than rights, reality more than fairness, and it's about acceptance.  For instance, one day, you're going to die. [NSFW language]

And one day, both your parents will be dead too.

There was a time, back then, right around that age, when I got in a car with my friend Geoff for the first time with him behind the wheel.  He was still at a time in his life that he was notoriously self-destructive, and I buckled up and expected the worst.  He drove more cautiously and meticulously than anyone else I'd ridden with.  I was surprised and admitted as much.  His response was very adult.

"And this little light of mine, 

a gift you passed on to me

I'm gonna let it shine

to guide you safely on your way."

["10,000 Days (Wings for Marie, part 2)", Tool]

v42

"where every future looms unsteady and unclear

I'm the sum of my fears

I'm the man of the year

I'm the man of  the year"

["The Man of the Year", Sean Panting]

My brother and I had a conversation a little while back in which we exchanged some ideas about what 'adulthood' is, really.  One of the concepts we agreed on was the ability to sit in retrospection and see yourself not as one person, but as an evolution of various versions.  The me of five years ago is not the me of today, and given a set of circumstances, the kinds of decisions today-me would make would differ greatly from mid-30s-me.  Once, years ago, when I made a decision that really surprised one of my sisters, I remember thinking 'yeah, previous-me would have gone the other way'.

Sometimes when I really reflect, I can even tell you precisely what some of those differences might be.  The me of today gives a lot more thought to the future, for instance, than mid-30s-me, who had no real plan for retirement and no real inclination to think about it.  Today-me has a much better idea of what makes him tick, makes him happy, or stresses him in good ways or bad.  There are physical differences, of course, as well.  I certainly don't have the energy I did at 20 or even 30, and I've become clumsier.  I often feel like my body has betrayed me that way.  My brain tells my hands what to do, and they disobey.  I know I know how; it's a dexterity I used to possess.  It annoys me when it doesn't play out as I know it should.  It is with much reluctance that I accept notions like 'I'm no longer strong enough' or 'I'm not longer coordinated enough to do this'.  It's one of those aspects of getting older that seems blindingly self-evident when vocalized or written down, and yet which somehow comes as a surprise when it goes undisclosed until it occurs.

The me of today is much more acclimated to the notion of parenthood, of course, which is a feature-addition I never even anticipated prior to mid-30s-me.  In fact, I think I've actually gotten pretty decent at it.  Today-me has accepted the changing nature of friendship, acquaintanceship, and other relationships within the context of people growing older, sometimes apart, sometimes together.  Today-me is much better at the skills required to maintain a long-term relationship (obviously), though he's also wise-enough to never rule out the role of Liza-Ann's abundant patience.  Today-me sighs thinking 'why, Pat, why couldn't you have just given a straight answer, you sarcastic prick?' to himself at least twice a day, but still doesn't manage to stop the initial response from coming out.  Here's hoping a future iteration has that bug fixed.

But that's not actually at the top of the feature list for next-iteration-me.  I already know what the next big shift has to be:  'to be mindful without being mind-full'.  I take too much work-stress home with me.  It impacts too much of my home-life.  Despite the fact that my conscious mind knows its relative (un)importance compared with various relationships and other activities, my solution-obsessed brain is often incapable of letting work stay at work, even when it's caught up on issues beyond my control.  It's not even just work.  Saturday night I realized that much of my social anxiety probably stems from the fact that I can't keep myself from mentally investing in any problem I overhear, even when it has absolutely nothing to do with me and I'm not in a position to help.  The moment I spot the smallest dilemma, I'm scheming and plotting and preparing advice, even when that advice will plainly go unspoken.  Can't not.  Brain sees problem, brain starts working on a solution.  Brain can't let go.  Stupid brain.

I look forward to the various incarnations of future-me.  I know what some of the future features will include.  But for now, I really need to work on that big change, and we'll see what else I can squeeze in with this cycle.

Om mani padme hum.

Poppy

"And the days they linger on
And every night when I'm waiting for
The real possibility that I may meet you in my dreams
Sometimes you're there and you're talking back to me
Come the morning I can swear that you're next to me
And it's okay"

["Come Back", Pearl Jam]

 

His body is gone but his wisdom remains.  

 

I imagine everyone was expecting me to write.  I expected me to write.  I planned to write, in fact.  I thought about it a lot of Friday, as to what I'd write, and how I might feel come Sunday.  I went through a range of emotions.  I considered writing that angry bit I didn't write when he died, with "The Noose" by A Perfect Circle quoted above. I considered re-writing or otherwise re-visiting For My Archer.  Then I read what my brother had written in his blog, and I thought "well, I can't put it any better than that", and all urge to write on Sunday left me.  Instead, I had myself a very typical Sunday.

This past year since my father's death flew by so quickly.  There were many times when I thought of him, even occasions where I sat quietly at work, closing my eyes for a few moments as a sudden, unexpected wave of sadness washed over me in the remembrance that there won't be any new conversations, even if we never did have much to talk about.  There were times at home when I put on that ratty old sweater of his that I kept.  It's joined my mother's signet ring on the list of my most precious possessions.  Sometimes when I sat by the fire, he sprung to mind.  Whenever I'm being handy around the house, I think of him.  Unskilled, untrained, we just make do as best we can.  I think of him most when I'm enjoying "the simple times", as he would have. 

And since I endeavor to make my life simpler as much as possible, I expect I will never stop thinking of him in those times, or missing him when I do.

 

I miss his smile and laugh the most.  In the last several years he was alive I considered it my most important objective when visiting him to make him laugh at least once.  Even a light chuckle was a victory.  A smile was not enough, and when I couldn't get even that, I left feeling disappointed in myself.  It felt a paltry repayment given all he'd done for me over the years, but he was by-and-large a man without hobbies.  He danced and he flirted, and I couldn't really help him much with those, save providing him some origami flowers to dispense to the nurses of the homes where he stayed in his twilight years.

 

I can never and could never pay him back; I will pay it forward as best I can.

 

He is tattooed indelibly upon my heart.

 

And in it.