Death and Taxes

"And how far is halfway there?
I didn't see you on the trail
Did almost become good enough?
Should a good life be so hard won?"

["Halfway There", Soundgarden]

I just filed our taxes.  Having settled Dad's estate, tax-wise, last year, our taxes are finally simple enough that I can do them online and file them without having to go endure H&R Block for hours.  And I do mean "hours".  They once took about 3 1/2 hours to figure it all out, and I didn't think it was all that complicated to begin with.

Tomorrow a nurse will be coming to my house to weigh me and take my blood and urine as part of a my setting up a life insurance plan.

It's true what they say:  ... death and taxes.

For about a month leading up to today I've been wanting to write.  I've been expecting to write.  I thought about writing on the anniversary of my father's death.  But despite my desire to sit here and wax poetic, I've not really much I wanted to say, then, now, or in the month between.  I do miss my father.  Some days - not often, but now and then - there's a moment when it dawns on my still like a surprise:  "oh yeah... no more Dad."  I'm not sure when that stops.  The (physical) non-existence of my mother in my life cemented in my head a long time ago.  I don't have those "Oh" moments for her any more.

I've been reflecting on my own health and mortality a fair bit.  This hasn't come about for particular personal reasons.  I haven't lost anyone close recently or had any health scares.  But I've been to a few funerals in support of friends and family, and I've come to the conclusion that the last half of my life - and I do hope at 43 I have approached the half-way point and not gone well past it - will include a lot more wakes and funerals.  

At a funeral a little over a week ago, I endured 55 minutes of preaching and hymns to balance the 5 minutes of eulogy.  (Dear church-going friends:  Seriously?  That's fucked up.  Seriously.  Someone dies and the church still wants to own 92% of your grief?)  But as I tuned out the priest as he was pretending to have known the departed and drawing parallels to an old testament prophet, it afforded me a lot of time to think, and naturally, given the atmosphere, it was about death.  I wondered who among the circle of my closest friends would be the first to die, and how I might eulogize them if it came to it.  Given variances in age and health, I expect I'll outlive some but not all of them.  I will be heartbroken when the day arrives that I have to bury one.  I hope they'll be heartbroken the day they bury me.

(And yes, living inside this analytical brain is sometimes rather unpleasant.)

It's sad, contemplating the mortality of yourself and your loved ones.  But, to quote The Shawshank Redemption: "Get busy living, or get busy dying."

So in the meantime, I've still half a lifetime to get busy with.  I've been playing a lot more board games with Liza-Ann lately, who has taken to Ticket to Ride.  I hope the trend of us playing more board games continues; I very much enjoy it.  I hope to play more with friends as well.  It's a simple and cheap activity that supports conversation both on and off topic.  I'm 31 days from heading to Ottawa for this year's Nerdfest and to see Geoff and Krista's new home.  Later, in August, we'll be traveling Ontario for vacation as well, where I'll once again get to visit with my friends living there.

I've also been running a 5th edition D&D campaign since the fall, and I'd like to think (IMHO) that it's the best campaign I've ever put off.  A part of me would also like to not think that, because it doesn't involve all my closest friends, and it's nice to wax nostalgic about the great Al-Qadim campaign of many moons ago.  But I have to think the best in me - my most clever, my most creative - is still in the years ahead, a counter-balance to the way one's health wanes as they age.

So maybe only death and taxes are guaranteed.  Sure.  The rest - the fun, the friends, the memories - these we work at.  These we manufacture for ourselves.

If you'll all excuse me, I'm going to run some errands and visit my sister for a cup of tea.

"Have you got a car?
Somewhere to sleep?
Someone who loves you?
Something to eat?
I would say you're doing better than most"

["Halfway There", Soundgarden]

Unforgotten Rivers

Note: I wrote this some time last year during the winter, but chose not to hit Publish at the time.  I found it today still sitting in "Draft" and chose to go ahead.

"I must not fear. 

Fear is the mind-killer. 

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.

 I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over me and through me. 

And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. 

Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. 

Only I will remain."

[Frank Herbert, "Dune"]

I was bullied a bit as a child.  Not a lot, or at least I tell myself that.  Who's to say?  There were certainly plenty of kids around me who had it much worse.  Of that I'm certain.  I wasn't the most picked on of the class nerds, and I was only jumped on the way home from school a handful of times.  I held my own in any of the fist fights I consented to.  I stood my ground against guys my own size, and it was enough of a deterrent to the bigger ones who knew me to pass me over in favor of someone who'd never been known to throw down.  (I have my brother to thank for that little bit of wisdom.)  I got a few fat lips, some bruises, a few bloody noses, but no broken bones and probably not even a black eye.

Twice in my life I've nearly drowned: once as a child, and once as an adult.

Of course, these things have nothing to do with one another.


Earlier this morning, I was heading out to feed the meter and eating a banana on the way.  I brought the banana knowing there was a garbage bin half way to the car in which I could deposit the peel, which would free up my hands to fumble for change.  (Yes, I think that far ahead.)

When I reached the garbage can, it was completely buried in snow.  (Hurray, City of St John's!)  There was an empty Tim's cup stuck in the snowbank where the bin should be, and I put the peel in it.  I continued down the road, fed the meter, and started back.

Someone in a parked car nearby called me over.  He said he'd seen me put the peel and cup there, and asked that I take them with me and find a garbage can.

I knew immediately he was absolutely right.  It was irresponsible of me, and as much as I was grumbling to myself about the lack of snow-clearing in the city, I was contributing to the problem instead of the solution.  I don't have a problem admitting I'm wrong, so I said, "Yeah, sorry about that.  I put the peel there, though the cup wasn't mine.  I'll grab both and bring them in with me."  Yes, I was being a little more precise than I should have been, perhaps.  It's my nature to be very precise, and I also don't react well to false accusations.  And yes, I realize this is one of my more annoying qualities.

In any case, he responded - rather menacingly -"I saw you put the cup there."

I paused, said again, "I put the peel there, though the cup wasn't mine.  I'll grab both and bring them in with me."  I picked them both up and went inside. 

By the time I reached my desk, my ire was up.  I can recite to myself verses of Taoism about flexibility, of softness overcoming hardness, of how the world becomes a better place.  I can try to still myself by reflecting on Buddhist parables about 'leaving the woman at the river'.  But try as I might, I was left with two thoughts I cannot easily shake:


First, if this gentleman had a genuine interest in seeing the garbage cleaned up, he'd already achieved that goal the moment I first said I'd bring both inside.  As I see it, his goal was to convince himself that he was a better person because his righteous indignation at my crime afforded him the moral high ground and he'd exerted this position to affect positive change.  But he squandered the moral high ground with his insistence on re-asserting his exaggerated claim after I'd agreed to the supposed end-goal.  In other words, he was telling himself he was doing a good thing when really he was just attempting to bully me, and in effect being a total dick about it.  He was no longer interested in the garbage, only in accusing me of what he felt certain I'd done.  I'm curious as to the motive he assigns me in confessing one piece of litter but not two.  And I realize his back was up too, before mine even was, annoyed by the sight of someone littering.  Maybe this was the icing on the cake of an already horrible day for him.  Who knows?  Maybe, just maybe, it turns out he's actually a really swell guy.  But I don't know, and nor do I care.  To me, he was a bit of a dick.  We're unlikely to meet again, under better circumstances, so a dick he will remain.

The second, and more disturbing thought, however, was of the immediacy with which that familiar stomach-sinking feeling of long ago returned to me.  It is disturbing to me, that even now, in my 40s, a grown man over 200 lbs, there is still within me, and always will be, this skinny little nerdy kid who removes his school tie the moment he steps off the property.  He plans his route home carefully, balancing the likelihood of encountering someone with a different school tie against the probability of an adult being around who is actually willing to get involved.  He ponders recently overheard stories of who got jumped by how many and where.  He walks home with classmates he doesn't even like, simply because there is strength in numbers.  He chooses his streets.  He varies his route from day to day if he fears someone is planning something.  He crosses at the right spots.  He avoids eye contact as much as possible.  He provides no reason, and tries to convince himself that in doing so he can avoid trouble.  But the fear remains.  He can't convince himself, because deep down he knows the truth.

They don't need a reason.

This fear is a deeply-rooted conditioning.  It feels to me much like what happens when I am approaching the deep end in a swimming pool and the water reaches my neck.

What happens next in the pool is so powerfully instinctive, it takes all my will to push it down.  If you're not afraid of water, you cannot relate.  If you fear it the way I do, you probably can't describe it in a way that feels adequate to make others empathize.  It's like an argument in my own head in which I'm only one of the two participants.  I feel thoughts rise as if from nowhere.  Worst-case scenarios simply appear.  Most of all, it makes me feel helpless, and frustrated by my own helplessness.  I back away, cautiously, and feel the fear subside as I reach shallow waters, but I'll likely be dried and dressed before the adrenaline is out of my bloodstream.

With the swimming pool, I choose to expose myself to this fear.  I ready myself.  I steady myself.  I bring myself to that brink and feel it wash over me.  I push back against it.  I do it because it's like exercising a muscle.  I do it in the hope that some day that fear will no longer remain.  Perhaps, in time, I can conquer this demon.

The other one I encounter randomly, such as when an aggressive stranger chastises me for carelessly littering a banana-peel.  I don't get to ready or steady myself.

I can only hope that some day that fear will no longer remain.  I doubt it.  It's as much a part of me as anything.