Spoilers and recollections
It's a mark of a really gifted author that they can force me to relive the worst moments of my life just by telling their story.
I just finished reading Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, and the death of Dumbledore, and more importantly Harry's response to it, is reminding me of my own response when my favorite professor died. It happened about a year and a half ago, a week before final exams in the last semester of college I have attended to date. Keehley had lung cancer, and until midterms he had been going to the hospital weekly, every Thursday, for his chemotherapy. He sometimes missed classes on Fridays because they really took a lot out of him, but if he could stand he'd be in class. Every one knew he was dying, and everyone knew there was no where else he wanted to be. Around midterms, he went in on a Tuesday, because Thursday conflicted with some plan he'd made. He never made it back to class. I didn't return to class more than a handful of times, everytime I did it just felt like some kind of massive practical joke. How could I be in Keehley's class room, listening to a lecture Keehley should have been delivering, and yet look up and see some other professor? It didn't fit, and I didn't go to class except for tests. I showed up one day on a whim, and they told us Keehley had died over the weekend. His lungs had only been absorbing at about 50% efficiency, and that was on pure oxygen and a ventilator. He knew he was dying, and he told the doctors to turn off the machines. He wanted to breathe on his own. My mother calls it dying with dignity, and I have a great deal of respect for the people who choose to go that way. The only problem is that it doesn't make it any easier for the people left behind. I'm sure somewhere, there's someone wondering if their loved one might have survived if they hadn't been so damnably proud. That someone is not me, but I still didn't take my professor's death well. I didn't make it to class for the rest of the week, and failed half my final exams. The other half I think I passed because of compassionate professors.
The day of the funeral, I was perfectly composed, right up until the moment I went to speak to Keehley's widow. I wanted to tell her how much her husband had meant to me, how he had affected my life, how much I was going to miss him. Instead when I opened my mouth all that came out was a sob.
Reading the final chapters of the Half Blood Prince, I can't help but remember the pain of Keehley's death. Dumbledore's death, Harry's pain, I know about it, and not just because Rowling knows how to write it. I know about it because I lived it, and because I lived it I can appreciate Rowling's talent, her skill for capturing the raw edge of grief without riding it into the ground. When someone you cared about dies, it does feel like a piece of you goes too, and it never seems like it makes any sense. It's always a horrible, terrible waste. Whether the loved one is 1 or 105, there was always so much left they could have done. I wanted Keehley to be my factulty advisor when I declared Pre-Law as my second major. I wanted to have a recommendation letter with my favorite professor's name at the bottom of it for when I headed off to grad school. Keehley will never get to see his little girls grow up. I don't know what else there was for him, but I know there must have been plenty. No man can live so full a life and not leave something unfinished. The false horcrux in Rowling's story is doubtless a major strand for the next book's tapestry, but it's also a symbol.
No man's work is every really done, not to the satisfaction of those he leaves behind. No death will ever be looked on by everyone and say "it was his time, this was not a waste." Dumbledore's death, like Keehley's, is a tragedy, not because he didn't accomplish enough but because there was so much left for him to accomplish. I guess we all have to be Harry and pick up where our heroes left off, and maybe if we do a good enough job, someone else will pick it up after we're gone and our work is still unfinished. Because there's always more work to do, and a hero's death is always a tragedy, always a waste.
I just finished reading Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, and the death of Dumbledore, and more importantly Harry's response to it, is reminding me of my own response when my favorite professor died. It happened about a year and a half ago, a week before final exams in the last semester of college I have attended to date. Keehley had lung cancer, and until midterms he had been going to the hospital weekly, every Thursday, for his chemotherapy. He sometimes missed classes on Fridays because they really took a lot out of him, but if he could stand he'd be in class. Every one knew he was dying, and everyone knew there was no where else he wanted to be. Around midterms, he went in on a Tuesday, because Thursday conflicted with some plan he'd made. He never made it back to class. I didn't return to class more than a handful of times, everytime I did it just felt like some kind of massive practical joke. How could I be in Keehley's class room, listening to a lecture Keehley should have been delivering, and yet look up and see some other professor? It didn't fit, and I didn't go to class except for tests. I showed up one day on a whim, and they told us Keehley had died over the weekend. His lungs had only been absorbing at about 50% efficiency, and that was on pure oxygen and a ventilator. He knew he was dying, and he told the doctors to turn off the machines. He wanted to breathe on his own. My mother calls it dying with dignity, and I have a great deal of respect for the people who choose to go that way. The only problem is that it doesn't make it any easier for the people left behind. I'm sure somewhere, there's someone wondering if their loved one might have survived if they hadn't been so damnably proud. That someone is not me, but I still didn't take my professor's death well. I didn't make it to class for the rest of the week, and failed half my final exams. The other half I think I passed because of compassionate professors.
The day of the funeral, I was perfectly composed, right up until the moment I went to speak to Keehley's widow. I wanted to tell her how much her husband had meant to me, how he had affected my life, how much I was going to miss him. Instead when I opened my mouth all that came out was a sob.
Reading the final chapters of the Half Blood Prince, I can't help but remember the pain of Keehley's death. Dumbledore's death, Harry's pain, I know about it, and not just because Rowling knows how to write it. I know about it because I lived it, and because I lived it I can appreciate Rowling's talent, her skill for capturing the raw edge of grief without riding it into the ground. When someone you cared about dies, it does feel like a piece of you goes too, and it never seems like it makes any sense. It's always a horrible, terrible waste. Whether the loved one is 1 or 105, there was always so much left they could have done. I wanted Keehley to be my factulty advisor when I declared Pre-Law as my second major. I wanted to have a recommendation letter with my favorite professor's name at the bottom of it for when I headed off to grad school. Keehley will never get to see his little girls grow up. I don't know what else there was for him, but I know there must have been plenty. No man can live so full a life and not leave something unfinished. The false horcrux in Rowling's story is doubtless a major strand for the next book's tapestry, but it's also a symbol.
No man's work is every really done, not to the satisfaction of those he leaves behind. No death will ever be looked on by everyone and say "it was his time, this was not a waste." Dumbledore's death, like Keehley's, is a tragedy, not because he didn't accomplish enough but because there was so much left for him to accomplish. I guess we all have to be Harry and pick up where our heroes left off, and maybe if we do a good enough job, someone else will pick it up after we're gone and our work is still unfinished. Because there's always more work to do, and a hero's death is always a tragedy, always a waste.