Andy said:I don't rant in Usenet much anywhere but today's the the day and this
is the place.
My brother's wife Lauri died this morning of lung cancer.
I wonder if all the chemo and radiation didn't shorten her life, but it
sure didn't save it.
She was a better sister to me than my own. [I know that's selfish, it's
just the way I'm feeling at the moment]
In the introduction to _Angry Candy_, Harlan Ellison recounted the funeral
of his friend Emily:
==========================BEGIN QUOTE=======================
We sat through the early part of the service, and we perhaps heard the
remarks and sentiments from the minister, Mr. Richelieu. Then he called on
me, and everything I'd wanted to say about Emily, about her warmth and
decency and flawless friendship and personal strength, all of it fled, and I
was angry. There is no other word, I was just goddamned *angry*!
Richelieu had done that standard number about the deceased going on to a
better place, that Emily was at peace at last, that we could all take heart
in the sure and certain knowledge that she was watching us from on high, and
smiling at us.
And I began speaking, and I'm not sure exactly what I said, but it was
something like this:
It's not seemly to speak harshly at the funeral of someone you loved, and
who's gone away, and you miss so much it squeezes your chest when you think
about them. It's not right to make a big scene and cry about how it hurts
when you ask that lost friend a question, and she's not there to answer, as
if the wind took her answer away, and if you listen hard enough you can
still hear her voice receding, getting thinner and smaller and more
transparent. We're not supposed to do that. We're supposed to reassure one
another and say dumb things like, "Well, she couldn't have suffered much."
And I *want* to say things like that, because ceremonies like this are for
the living, and not the dead, because the dead are gone and can't hear what
we say, and I can't even take solace in that, because it isn't a new
thought. And the truth of it is, I can't take any solace *at all*, because
Emily is dead. She's just gone, and we won't hear her cleverness ever
again, and we won't see the way she gave that wry smile, as she turned
half-away so you could enjoy what she said without having to worry about her
reaction. No one allows us to be angry. It isn't fitting, it isn't seemly.
But that's how I feel. I'm just pure and deeply angry that she's gone.
That she died when her life was so good. That's cruel. It's like some kind
of old Arabian Nights revenge, where the djinn waits until you're happiest
to slice you down. And in the compassion that we try to show each other, we
won't let ourselves be angry, won't let ourselves scream at the world that
is now minus that special part.
YOU CAN BE ANGRY! "Do not go gentle into that good night, old age should
burn and rave at close of day; rage, rage against the dying of the light."
It will be a brief enough time before our daily measure softens the edge of
memory, and Emily, and all she was, and all the places in which she resided
in our hearts will have closed over just like the Red Sea, and we won't
*feel* like being angry. We'll just be miserable, and lonely for her, and
we'll never have taken the opportunity to let the stupid nasty world that
took her know how much we miss her and how just goddamned *angry* we are!
And I sat down, and could feel that these people were angry, but not at
Emily's death. They were angry because I hadn't played the game. And I felt
awful, just awful, and I hung my head. And Susan touched my hand, and I
cried.
And Norman [Spinrad] got up, and he climbed the risers to the platform
filled with flowers, and he stood behind the lectern, and he spoke so well.
He believed as I believed, that it is better to send off the loved one with
rage, to show at least for a moment to the empty sky and the sunny day that
you *cared*, enough to look cranky and unseemly, that the loved one deserved
at least *that* much, but he was saner than I. He said, (and this is just a
part, just the best part that I remember), "Don't expect justice. Emily
being taken like this, is not fair. It is not just. She never deserved to
die so soon. There is no justice inherent in the universe -- except what we
put there. All the justice that exists, is what we make. So let us show
compassion and sense and courage, in Emily's name."
Oh, that was *so much* better. I wish I'd had the wit or the skill or the
clear head to say that. Because it was what lay at the core of my anger. It
was something that could keep you busy while mourning. It could kill the
guilt of not having been there to save her. Of not having said to her the
things you now realize she needed to hear from a friend. Of not feeling
adequate to face death. It was wise and sane and correct.
And then Richelieu got up and -- gently but firmly -- debunked what we had
said. With oleaginous sincerity, he told his flock the same fable all over
again, pushing the philosophy of that particular House of God and House of
Men.
When the ceremony was ended, we three stood alone for a time, and no one
came to speak to us, except for one woman who approached us and, smiling as
Richelieu had been smiling, advised us that Emily *was* above, and she hoped
and prayed for us that we would be able to let the sun into our hearts. She
meant well, but I wanted to slug her.
And we walked back to the car, and we got in and drove away from Redondo
Beach; and there hasn't been a day since February of 1986 that I haven't
thought about Emily, and how much I miss my friend.
===========================END QUOTE========================
That's the best description I've ever seen for my reaction to the death of a
loved one. You have my sincere condolences.
Bob
