lydy | Obituraries

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I don't read obits. I'm not that old, yet, and not that interested in the deaths of strangers. If anyone I care about dies, I'll hear about it -- except for Angela. My high school not-quite-sweetheart. (There's a post in my journal a while back about her.) She doesn't want to have any contact with me, for completely understandable reasons. She also has Stage IV breast cancer. Five year survival rate: 16%. So, every now and then, I check the obits on-line. I wonder if this will work. It won't tell me if there's a grave at which to leave roses. I'm not sure why I want to know. It would be rude to call her husband to ask if I could attend the funeral. But I still want to know. I want her to beat the odds, I want her to live forever, but I want to know.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

minnehaha.livejournal.com

He contacted me, all these years later. "I'm having a triple bypass. I'm afraid. Not a week goes by without thinking about you." I appreciated him tell me. I asked him to let me know that he'd come through, but he hasn't. He changed his e-mail address. There's never been an obituary. I just don't know.

K.

From:

lydy.livejournal.com

I'm sorry.

From:

joel-rosenberg.livejournal.com

I don't know much about how to handle grief well, or uncertainty, so I'm just going to share some sympathy; on the other hand, I do know that the online Social Security death registry works pretty well in letting you know if somebody with a social security number has died (and, no, you don't have to know their SS number in order to use it).

From:

joel-rosenberg.livejournal.com

I probably should have added: http://ssdi.rootsweb.com/ .

From:

lydy.livejournal.com

The Chicago Tribune in their on-line obit page has a link to Legacy.org and the Social Security database, so when I search, I use both of them. In the end, all I want is to be able to put a pebble on her grave. But if she died and I found out, I still probably wouldn't be able to find her gravestone. I mean, who do you ask? Not her family, most certainly.

There's something appealingly dramatic about dressing all in black with a veil and sitting in the last pew during the funeral service, but it has a voyeuristic aspect to it, almost a vampiric one. and again, it would be unreasonably hard on the family to ask if I might attend, even if the service was announced in the paper.

From:

bibliofile.livejournal.com

Haven't had quite the same situation, but your wish is perfectly understandable. Breast cancer can be treatable, but Stage IV isn't a good time to start.

I'll second the SS death registry thing -- which is also readily available on various genealogy sites.

From:

apostle-of-eris.livejournal.com

I've gone through the transition where it's begun to include people younger than me . . . an eerie feeling.
While I still, intellectually and somewhat emotionally, feel detached from the truly inevitable, I'm still learning the sensations of more and more ages.
My father's mother lived well into her nineties, and was vigorous until perhaps the last year and a half, but my father says she once said, "Everyone's dead."

It's . . . a month and a half? since Bob Wilson died, and I've nowhere near digested it. He was in irreversible decline for several years; only the rate was uncertain. A man of such preposterous influence that he influenced the naming of a planet AND its moon died effectively a pauper. I was able to visit only a ocuple of times a decade, but . . . Well, it took me a couple of years to get over the loss of Arlen. We'll see.

Come to think of it, this probably isn't very helpful or cheering.

well, WTF, there's also the story (I _do_ wish I had a better memory for names. this one has specific venerables attached) of the great Zen master who was attending the funeral of another great Zen master, and weeping. A disciple approached and tried to suggest that it was inappropriate for such a master to display such emotion. The master replied, "You fool! I want to cry!"

I find myself using the expression "marooned in the future" regularly.

From:

lydy.livejournal.com

Come to think of it, this probably isn't very helpful or cheering.

You fool, it is helpful.

Grief shared yadda yadda yadda. If it weren't so true it will be trivial.

Of the many, many speechless moments you have given me, one of my favorites was stepping onto an elevator with you. You said (so casually I should have suspected something), "Oh, Lydia. Let me introduce you. Bob Wilson, Bob Shea, I'd like you to meet Lydia." I remember vaguely trying to ask you if you really meant both of the writers of the Illuminati Trilogy without either sounding like a damn fool, or seeming to be rude. I don't remember exactly what I said. Hrumph.

Back on topic. We lose people. We lose people in all sorts of ways, death is only one of them. It's reassuring to know that losing loved ones is a part of being human, even if it's one of the worst parts of it. And (and now I'm crying) it's helpful to tell living people about your love. Not just about the person, or your history with them and the pain of loss, but about how you loved them, and still love them. I don't know.

After I promised I wouldn't trouble her anymore, I did break that promise, once. I sent Angela a short email. I said that there was something I had to tell her, and I was sorry that I had to disturb her to tell her, but I needed to tell her that I loved her, and that I'd loved her all this past quarter century. It was a selfish thing, to send her that. But I don't think it was wrong. I hope it didn't hurt her, and for all I know she deleted it without reading it. But for me, it was necessary. There are still days when I miss her so much. I have a picture in a yearbook, a strange inscription in that same yearbook, and I might have some inscrutable poetry somewhere in my papers. Nothing else tangible. I wish I had a lock of her hair. So Victorian, although she had the most beautiful, waist-length black hair.

How long do you keep on losing someone before you're done and they're gone? Maybe you do it forever. I know a number of people who continue to talk about a loved one in the present tense. How long has Scott Imes been dead? No, please don't tell me. I still talk about him in the present tense and I have no desire to correct myself. I still have dreams where he's there, talking and smoking with Margie, me, sometimes you, Cat, Peter, Sherri, all the usual suspects.

And now, I'll say, I'm sorry if I'm talking too much about death. I don't mean to bum anyone out. But sometimes, it does help. And those cliched condolences matter. Lords know, what else can you say other than, "I'm sorry that he's dead. I'm sure you must be very sad."?

Minor point of ... etiquette: I'm not real partial to "I'm so sorry for your loss". That one is for strangers. After all, if he was your friend, then you have lost a friend, too. Whether or not you think that the person you're talking to has a "better" claim to grief, it seems to me that by admitting that you are also experiencing loss, you make a connection to the mourner. Often, that's what a body needs, connections to people, links to life. Which reminds me of what Scott said when my cat Ember died. He said, "Everybody dies, Lydia. Even you." That was the most comforting thing anyone said to me about her death. But I think you have to hear it in Scott's voice, that gentle, matter-of-fact voice. You remember. Even if the dead person wasn't your friend, your alive friend is hurting, and the "your loss" seems to me so distancing, as if it had nothing to do with you.

This is obviously a personal preference. Just remember, if somebody I love dies, y'all better say something other than, "I'm so sorry for your loss. Otherwise, I will rip off your head and beat you to death with it, so there.