It’s not a subject most people talk about, in fact, I’d say it’s a topic most people avoid: death.
Death always fascinated me, not for the act of death, but the purpose and meaning it gives to ones life. I’ve read many articles, which show ones perception of themselves after a near death experience is changed. Some become more religious, some go from bad to good, most change their attitude, and still others claim to be unaffected.
I woke up thinking about the purpose of life. On last night’s episode of Deadliest Catch, admired and loved skipper Phil Harris died. The episode was a piece of artwork- done respectfully and with deeper purpose. The sons fought while their father lay in a hospital bed, their flow of emotions like a tornado. We see moments intended for only family members, as if we the audience have grown to be one- explosive moments and tender moments. Phil asks for forgiveness for not giving a better childhood to his sons, one he felt he could have made better. A clearing of conscious, a moment made right, by those sacred words- “It’s ok, I love you”; as the older Harris comforts his father. It’s a scene all to familiar to those who have lost someone close. We’re fortunate to catch this inside glimpse and when I watched “after the Catch”, the cameraman made it clear- every story has a beginning, a middle and an end- tonight was it was Phil.
I think what made it all so clear was his cognizance of his demise. The fact he knew his time was done, the fact he’d reached the pinnacle of his 54 years of life and wanted the cameraman to capture it- a man who went from Captain of a crab boat to famed personality of Deadliest Catch. It was his earthly way of showing others that when your time has come, you make amends, forgive and ask others to forgive you; in the end, family and friends is everything.
One of the toughest moments for any human is to face the death of a loved one. It profoundly shapes you. When I mourned the people of the Trade Center tragedy, I only recognized the scope when I faced the wall of remembrance, something I talked about only a few blogs ago. The thousands of fliers plastered on the side of the Armory, asking anyone who had any information to contact listed numbers- thousands. There was a flier for a father written by 5-6 of his children, his baseball cap attached along with pictures of the family in better times. He worked at Cantor Fitzgerald, the financial firm at the top of one of the buildings. The artwork was part hope, part realization, and all sadness. His age was about my own.
I’m not sure how long I cried that day, but sometimes grief walks a path of it’s own. I couldn’t go down there until 6 months after it happened. My memory burns with moments like that. I proceed with caution.
I was pooped on by a bird in 1998. I know that sounds funny, and in retrospect it is, however, my end almost came because of that shit. Over the course of a week, I suffered symptoms from a 106-degree temperature, to extreme pain breathing, and coughing up blood. Before I entered a hospital stay of two weeks my wife dragged my one year old daughter away at my command. I couldn’t convince her despite my academy award winning as they hooked monitors to me in the emergency room. Details aren’t important, but not long after I’d recovered my thinking changed. What-IF I had died? What would I have left? What could I have given her- scribbling, poems, writings, and a little money?
I met a 72-year-old artist at a flea market maybe a year later that contemplated these very issues. His art was extraordinary, his personality charismatic and his mind preoccupied with this work- something he believed would be the only legacy of his existence; the only contribution he could give his children. We had a beneficial relationship- he supported my writing and poetry with enthusiasm, and I supported his artwork with the same. We both respected and admired each other and our positions towards life and death- it worked its way into those early conversations and changed me. On Sept 11th, he was one of the first to call.
I suppose my desire to be a writer came much earlier, but these uncertain events solidified my position- I had to make a difference- not to a company whose memory is attributed to whoever is on its payroll, but mankind. It sounds, “fairy taleish” and perhaps it is, but I’m a strong believer in hard work, persistence, and low-key harmony.
I had an old cemetery in my neighborhood as a kid. My friends and I grew up going to the ghostly haunt late at night. I lived 11 years next to one, and found peaceful walks necessary in the turmoil of every day life. To see funeral processions and the fragility of humans is a sobering reminder. Our lives are finite and a walk around the cemetery reminds one why life is valued and how one person can affect another.
Death isn’t about one human life ending, it’s about all that surround one’s death living. Pain and suffering is inevitable, but how one is rounded can’t dismiss it. Life must include death, as well as death includes life.
Pete’s Tavern is today’s stop. O. Henry wrote “Gift of the Magi” there. A story about a poor young couple that for Christmas sacrifice something very valuable of their own for each other. Their sacrifices cancel each other out, but in doing so, it’s realized that moment is the most valuable thing one could give. He wrote the story in Booth 3. Parkside Tavern is 2nd on the list because it opens at 1:30pm. I only know the music there is supposed to be great in the evening. It’s always about the mystery.
More details to come, Friday night.