Life, Death, Life

Brooklyn, NY - At the deli waiting for a bagel this weekend, I was reading the local news about a young actress who battled cancer to successfully come back to the stage. A woman in line behind me saw me read the article and said I could probably take the newspaper for free since it was being recycled. She herself had cancer that took her right breast. I have a family member who is a cancer survivor. When asked earlier this year to attend a funeral of a close friend’s aunt who passed away, I did. I wanted to confront my fear of death.

I hesitate to write the word. There is vitality and force in my fingers and in my body. The euphemisms of death are many. They don’t seem to capture the full fear and power of death. The more I fear it, the more it holds its power.

I’m not trying to be morbid. I’m trying to wrestle with the “finitude” of life. An author by the name of Carl Scovel wrote about this in a collection of essays. Because it is finite, life is precious. As I get older, there is no way to avert the awareness.

Aspects of death—and of life—is everywhere. In the walk yesterday to raise awareness and funding for AIDS prevention and treatment, I saw a few walking in memory of someone else, walking with a picture of the loved one that the disease took. Those walking were joyous. Walking was a proactive step to prevent disease, prolong life, to celebrate the life of many.

Certain Native American people believe that death is an arc in the circle of life. Theirs is a belief system that is stoic and somehow hope-inspiring: Life and death are both passages. Both are celebrated. I would like to be this resilient.