It
was a week of death.
On
Monday, death tried sneaking past my house to hook up with a young woman hiding
in her truck, just around the bend in the muddy road. Hidden by amber autumn
trees, she waited with the refreshments: a large bottle of iced tea and a pile
of pills. It would be a final secret fling.
But
as I wandered down my gravel road with my tiny grandson sleeping peacefully in
his stroller, the cops came roaring off the highway, straight towards me. And
as the flying Vs of Canada geese shouted directions at each other overhead, I
pulled over to the shoulder with the baby and the dog to let the police zoom
passed.
“I
wonder what’s happening,” I said to myself. “I guess it’s nothing dangerous
because the cop just waved at me as he went by. But let’s take you home, just in
case,” I reassured my napping babe. We turned and headed west as two more
police cars and a truck flew past us. I stepped up my pace and as I turned into
my driveway, my husband and son were headed out to see what all the commotion
was about.
They
returned ten minutes later, not really knowing if it was a drug bust or perhaps
a stolen vehicle. But the tattooed girl was taken away by the police, her iced
tea left unopened. We were all
surprised her vehicle was deserted in the mucky ruts. The mystery was solved
that evening when two distraught, exhausted parents came to retrieve the truck.
They explained to us that their daughter planned to commit suicide. She had
tried before. The secret tracking device they installed saved her life. And she
was sent to the hospital for help.
So
on Monday, death was stood up.
I
remembered my first exposure to suicide. I was five when Marilyn Monroe died.
She committed the crime of taking her own life. My child’s mind clearly reasoned
that she chose to die, so how was it criminal? Had she lived, would she be
charged and put in jail? Was that better?
“She
just wanted to go,” I thought to myself.
It
made perfect sense to me.
Until
thirty years later, when my uncle shot himself in the throat. And his
granddaughter hung herself in the basement. And my friend’s son intentionally
completed his meeting with death, too. I thought of the four little girls in a
Saskatchewan First Nations community who voluntarily died. Such
a loss. Such a waste. Such a crime.
Thankfully
suicide has been decriminalized in Canada. But does a ten year old understand
her actions? Did my family members? Did Marilyn? Should we intervene? Or are
there some obstacles that just can’t be overcome? Is that what the twenty-year-old in the truck felt? Is death
ever a positive partner or always a bad date?
On
Wednesday, death got lucky and met my high school friend.
I
sat at her funeral, listening to her son sing a favourite song for her. It was
a quiet, acoustic performance of Leonard Cohen’s “Alleluia”. Everyone cried.
She had been very sick and her boy sat with her in the hospital till death cut
in. I knew the feeling of waiting, remembering back to my grandmother and I
sitting patiently together till her last exhale. Vibrations filled the room as
her energy dissipated and transformed into the air and out to our universe. Sad
but comforting.
Sometimes
death is an expected guest.
On
Friday, death got to be popular. A living funeral, hosted by my daughter’s
friend, Andrew Henderson, covered death in gold glitter and champagne. Andrew has known for some
time that his cancer is terminal, so he has been living with death lurking
around. Why not invite death to the party? As Sia and Rihanna songs got people
up dancing, others shared secrets with him that he could “take to the grave”.
“ I
love you,” I whispered to him. “We all love you. We always have.”
“I
know,” he said. “I know.”
He
has shown me that life can be fabulous. And that living is always finished with
dying.
A
one-night stand we can all count on.
It was a week of life.
October 25, 2016
Post Script:
Andrew Henderson died this morning. I thank him for including me in his life
and his death.
October 26,
2016
©️Conni Cartlidge
