Death Takes A Sideswipe

I don't like thinking about death but it seems to be making its presence known to me at the moment, despite my attempting to ignore it. It's coming at me from all angles and I view its presence like trying to get past an angry cat as it tries to sideswipe me with its claws. I'm not getting hit but it's coming close.

But people around me are not so lucky.

I'm getting older and with that comes health, shall we call them, changes? I'm not in bad health but issues are arising and I am going to need to deal with them before they potentially become chronic. Generally, for something that is over 50 years old, I am not in bad condition. But I can't bounce back like I once could.

Knowing this fact about myself is a leveller and I'm prepared to step up and do something about it. I have to if I want a long life. But you know, even with this positive mindset, it's not always a given that you're going to get there.

They say things come in threes, don't they? "They" are full of wisdom, it would seem. In the past month, there have been three deaths that have made me think hard and carefully about life.

The first

Recently, I was on my way to work along my normal route when I was diverted as the road had been closed. They're always messing with the roads, digging them up for pipes, or fun, so I didn't think anything of it. The Facebook jungle drums delivered the message that someone had been killed on a bike going through a village and that the road was closed, presumably by the police to analyse and process the scene. I felt sad and read some of the comments people had made about bikers doing wheelies and people going too fast in what is a 30 zone. Speculation abounded about what had actually happened. The day passed and the incident dimmed in my head as another road fatality - such a shame.

A couple of days later, I read another Facebook post written by someone called Molly who was talking about the death of a colleague, a moving tribute. I scanned it, again thinking How sad and I wonder who it was. I didn't know who Molly was, where she worked and then, suddenly, on seeing the picture of her colleague, I did. I knew both of them. I'd spoken to her only recently. And her colleague.

The girl she was talking about was my sons' barber and she was dead.

This knowledge hit me mentally like the physical equivalent to a punch in the face, like the bluntness of the statement above. I was emotionally struck. This was a woman I had chatted with, given money to, shared eye contact with. She is a part of my life.

Had been a part of my life.

And just like that, she was gone and would never cut my sons' hair again.

The second

This morning, my aunty died. She had been ill for weeks and despite the NHS' best efforts, she passed. It's been a tough time of hope presented and hope thwarted, which has taken its emotional toll on my family members, with long drives to the hospital and juggling of schedules to make life continue to trudge its way through necessity as trauma contrives to delay its passage.

The toll it took on my aunty was greater and today, I feel a mixture of relief and grief, but mainly grief.

It has been hard and the death of any loved one brings into focus the loss of others, the remembrance of people who are also no longer here and the gap that they leave which always remains. It is a muted day, for me, of reflection and inevitably, tears.

But sincerely, I know that she rests in peace where she did not before.

Your older family members dying will cause you to think about your place in a world. If there is one thing that I have learnt about life, it is that it is always changing and not always for the best. However, we adapt and try to move beyond whatever stage we find ourselves until there are no more levels.

I'm hoping that life has a lot more in store for me yet and that the surprises with which it will present me will be colourful odysseys filled with laughter and lightness. I am certainly attempting to ensure that it is not my health which relegates me to its dark corners.

I worry now about my mum, losing her little sister, parents already departed. She has us down the way but there are no longer people up the way. She has cousins adjacent to her but no-one as close as a sister. She is strong, I know; resilient and forward-thinking, but still, I worry.

These are the things that death brings to your door.

The third

I was at work the day before yesterday when my phone starting pinging. I tend to have it on silent as it is a distraction. Most of the apps I have muted as I find they are distracting, like a needy toddler which you want to ignore but find it is impossible and may also be to your detriment to do so. I am, therefore, of the opinion that that of which you are not aware, cannot bother you.

Except for an app called Spond.

This app is one that I do not look at regularly as it is for the communication of fixtures for my son's cricket team. Because of my laissez-faire attitude towards it and the infrequency of the posts, I have left the notifications on and that morning, it was going off consistently.

My work office is very relaxed and so, I had a look to see what was causing the flurry of activity.

It was the reactions of cricketing folk to a very sombre message. Accompanying it was an apology for the way that it had been delivered, via the app, but it was important that the information was shared and this was the most expedient way.

A death announcement. That morning. One of my son's cricket coaches. Died instantly from a seizure. An active man, probably around my age. Passionate about sport. Integral to the club and its running and its atmosphere. Now gone, leaving two children and a wife behind.

Like Shelby, the barber, this news left me stunned. I didn't know him well but I had shared conversations with this man about shirts and cricket equipment and times of sessions, all of it very mundane but still, he too had been in my life. And now he was not and would never be again.

Sudden, unseen death.

Wife without a husband. Kids without a father.

Loss.

*

This morning, I went swimming. It was before I knew my aunty had died but that news would not have had a bearing on whether I went or not.

It was both relaxing and a little frantic: relaxing, because of the strokes and the rhythm and the breathing and the wonder of being buoyant; frantic because I was not the only one there, there was a lane system and I was the new person unschooled in pool etiquette and not sure of the rules.

However, as I pushed myself through my shoulder ache and the wake of the be-goggled middle-aged man doing front crawl beside me, I thought about longevity and how much I wanted it. I thought about my kids getting married and how much I wanted to see that (if that's the path they choose). Or maybe before that, their graduation from university if that's where they're headed. I thought about places I want to see and things I've still yet to try, like calligraphy (not exciting but I like the way it looks). I thought about a return to Hawai'i and all the countries I've not visited. I thought about friends to visit with and hugs to give and ambitions I might have.

As the chlorine-tainted water crinkled my skin, I dreamed a little and contemplated what there still was left for me. I realised there was a lot and I also realised how it might all be taken away before I'd had the chance to taste it.

And, climbing out of the pool, not yet knowing about my aunty's death but being fully aware of those of Shelby and Leon, I decided that I'm going to do everything in my power to try and prevent death from taking that away from me and whilst that power may be limited, what little of it I do hold, I will protect at all costs with a better attitude towards food and exercise and well-being.

Death may have come close and I may still feel the slight air movement of his gown as he strolls casually by, but he hasn't stopped next to me.

Yet.