Memento Mori
Last night I went to the visitation for an ex-coworker who died in suspicious circumstances on Friday morning. Initial word was that the deceased (I will call him "Jason") committed suicide, but he didn't leave a note and until the toxicology results get back it's possible he died of natural causes. Jason was fired from my company four years ago after testing positive for cannabis (on a scheduled drug test, not a random one-- we've always wondered what the hell he was thinking). At the time of his death he was unemployed, uninsured, and about to be foreclosed upon. He leaves a wife and two daughters.
It was one of the more traumatic visitations I've attended; there was nothing I could say, sincere or otherwise, about how he lived a long, full, productive life. He was a sweet, personable, good-humored, and promising young man who made some very bad decisions and arguably paid far too high a price for those decisions. And his wife and children will continue to pay. Though the visitation left me physically shaking and rather a mess (far more so than I expected to be), the fact that I came seemed to mean something to Jason's uncles, who are still my co-workers and are fairly close to me. So it wasn't all morbid voyeurism or misplaced guilt on my part; I did have a reason for being there even though I was never terribly close to Jason and hadn't seen him since his termination.
[I will mention in this sidebar that Jason was an exceptionally good-looking person, and remained so even in death, though the mortician's art made him look rather like a clothing-store mannequin. This added to the unpleasantness.]
Today I arrived home from work to find a swarm of cars on the street. "Party," I thought briefly, though the mood seemed off. No balloons in anyone's yard, no signs of celebration. "Funeral," I thought next, still riffing off memories of Jason. I parked my car and strolled off to market, then came back with my salmon, pattypan squash, and wine to find that one of my neighbors from across the street had committed suicide. No doubts in this case, as he stabbed himself to death. The visitation is tomorrow.
What the hell, people?
It was one of the more traumatic visitations I've attended; there was nothing I could say, sincere or otherwise, about how he lived a long, full, productive life. He was a sweet, personable, good-humored, and promising young man who made some very bad decisions and arguably paid far too high a price for those decisions. And his wife and children will continue to pay. Though the visitation left me physically shaking and rather a mess (far more so than I expected to be), the fact that I came seemed to mean something to Jason's uncles, who are still my co-workers and are fairly close to me. So it wasn't all morbid voyeurism or misplaced guilt on my part; I did have a reason for being there even though I was never terribly close to Jason and hadn't seen him since his termination.
[I will mention in this sidebar that Jason was an exceptionally good-looking person, and remained so even in death, though the mortician's art made him look rather like a clothing-store mannequin. This added to the unpleasantness.]
Today I arrived home from work to find a swarm of cars on the street. "Party," I thought briefly, though the mood seemed off. No balloons in anyone's yard, no signs of celebration. "Funeral," I thought next, still riffing off memories of Jason. I parked my car and strolled off to market, then came back with my salmon, pattypan squash, and wine to find that one of my neighbors from across the street had committed suicide. No doubts in this case, as he stabbed himself to death. The visitation is tomorrow.
What the hell, people?