Tuesday, March 25, 2008
My Uncle Is: Dead
My grandfather's brother died on Saturday. No one has been able to tell me the cause. Apparently, he didn't show up for dinner and someone found him collapsed in his room. It was a sudden thing. All anyone could talk about during the past few days when the subject came up was how unexpected it was.
He was an energetic guy, my great-uncle with a booming voice and knack for storytelling. The last time I spoke with him for any length of time, we were discussing his involvement in World War II. He was in the signal corps and served in the Pacific theater of operations. As he told me that evening, he was there on Tinian when the Enola Gay was preparing to receive its most famous passenger. He described the security precautions put into place and the way that loading apparatus was set up, the sort of mundane details that evade the eye of the historian, who are frequently more concerned with the big names or the critical moments. But these details, too, were history, and the sort of information that only one who was there, a witness to the moment, could recall. And my uncle recalled everything perfectly. Though he hobbled around on a walker in his final years, his mind, that keen engineering mind, remained clear and sharp, undiminished by the slow passage of the years.
I had promised to lend or send a copy of a book on Tinian that I had finished reading. Just like I promised him years before to take a look at some old electronic equipment he wanted to get rid of when he was moving out of his old house. I thought I might be able to use it with my Underwood students, but in both cases, with the book and with that old heap of radio components, things never quite worked out. I suppose it's no one's fault, though I confess, I had expected him to live a few more years at least. It was so sudden. But I guess I mentioned that already.
The funeral was today. It was the first one since I have attended since college. My father came into town. It was his father's brother, and it was only fitting that he should attend, both to pay his respects and to visit his parents. The funeral home handled all the arrangements and the whole thing ran like clockwork. Granted, during the eulogy there was some confusion over the difference between Tinian and Guam, but otherwise the service went fine. Things were slightly more harrowing during the procession to the cemetery. For once, I had official permission to ignore traffic laws and run red lights, and yet rather than a sense of elation, I kept dreading intersections, especially after I nearly got hit while "running" a red light.
The cemetery itself was typical: well-manicured plots, marble headstones, the usual. We paid our respects and the coffin, a solid looking wooden affair, was lowered into the ground. Others teared up, a few sobbed...I just watched. I missed my uncle...I still do...but I didn't really have much to say.
I had looked at him when the coffin was opened back at the funeral home. I felt it was important that I try to do that. And like anyone else who has ever seen a loved one dead in a coffin, I had that moment of cognitive dissonance---the undertakers have done their work and the body looks alive, but it's illusory, and soon enough the reality of things settles in and you realize you won't hear that booming voice anymore.
The total time we spent at the cemetery couldn't have been more than 20 minutes. Then it was off to a quick reception at a nearby hotel, and then home. I couldn't help feeling as we drove between those cemetery gates that we had left something behind that didn't really belong there. It was just a mix-up and we would come back for my uncle later. But that was just illusory too, and soon enough the reality of things settled in and I realized that it was no accident. The coffin was there to stay.
I went back home and tried to put the whole funeral out of my mind by doing some reading for general exams. In my haste, I decided to go straight to the library in my good suit rather than change clothes. This was a mistake. Everyone who saw me asked why I was dressed up. And I had to explain I was at a funeral, and this prompted expressions of sympathy, as one might expect. But I didn't really know how to respond to that. I tried to explain that he was an old man and that it was good that he died peacefully. But my response felt hollow even if I believed every word. Here were people extending sympathy and I was giving some boilerplate response..and after a while making light of the fact that I kept having to explain my suit to people. Perhaps I should have just said "Thank you." and moved on.
That was one lesson I've learned from the day's events, as I've been reflecting these past few hours. Other minor ones involve exercising care in a funeral procession and accepting that not everyone is as compulsively interested in geography as I am. The major thing I saw today, however, and something that I'll need to consider further is how people respond to death and whether one can ever really come to grips with something so final and definite. I watched the people gathered around the grave carefully, and every single person responded differently to the situation. Some cried. Some couldn't watch. Others couldn't turn away or stared down towards the ground in silence. But these are just the public faces of grief. Who knows how they will deal in private and over time? Is there any way to make sense of death?
These are all rhetorical musings, of course. I'm not asking for examples of grieving strategies. But my uncle is dead, and I needed to type some thoughts out on the subject. Perhaps this is just part of my rationalizing process...or maybe grieving? I'm not sure. In either case, I recognize that these musings reveal a rather sharp shift in tone from my normal happy-go-lucky blog post, but there it is. Sorry if it's all too sudden.
My grandfather's brother died on Saturday. No one has been able to tell me the cause. Apparently, he didn't show up for dinner and someone found him collapsed in his room. It was a sudden thing. All anyone could talk about during the past few days when the subject came up was how unexpected it was.
He was an energetic guy, my great-uncle with a booming voice and knack for storytelling. The last time I spoke with him for any length of time, we were discussing his involvement in World War II. He was in the signal corps and served in the Pacific theater of operations. As he told me that evening, he was there on Tinian when the Enola Gay was preparing to receive its most famous passenger. He described the security precautions put into place and the way that loading apparatus was set up, the sort of mundane details that evade the eye of the historian, who are frequently more concerned with the big names or the critical moments. But these details, too, were history, and the sort of information that only one who was there, a witness to the moment, could recall. And my uncle recalled everything perfectly. Though he hobbled around on a walker in his final years, his mind, that keen engineering mind, remained clear and sharp, undiminished by the slow passage of the years.
I had promised to lend or send a copy of a book on Tinian that I had finished reading. Just like I promised him years before to take a look at some old electronic equipment he wanted to get rid of when he was moving out of his old house. I thought I might be able to use it with my Underwood students, but in both cases, with the book and with that old heap of radio components, things never quite worked out. I suppose it's no one's fault, though I confess, I had expected him to live a few more years at least. It was so sudden. But I guess I mentioned that already.
The funeral was today. It was the first one since I have attended since college. My father came into town. It was his father's brother, and it was only fitting that he should attend, both to pay his respects and to visit his parents. The funeral home handled all the arrangements and the whole thing ran like clockwork. Granted, during the eulogy there was some confusion over the difference between Tinian and Guam, but otherwise the service went fine. Things were slightly more harrowing during the procession to the cemetery. For once, I had official permission to ignore traffic laws and run red lights, and yet rather than a sense of elation, I kept dreading intersections, especially after I nearly got hit while "running" a red light.
The cemetery itself was typical: well-manicured plots, marble headstones, the usual. We paid our respects and the coffin, a solid looking wooden affair, was lowered into the ground. Others teared up, a few sobbed...I just watched. I missed my uncle...I still do...but I didn't really have much to say.
I had looked at him when the coffin was opened back at the funeral home. I felt it was important that I try to do that. And like anyone else who has ever seen a loved one dead in a coffin, I had that moment of cognitive dissonance---the undertakers have done their work and the body looks alive, but it's illusory, and soon enough the reality of things settles in and you realize you won't hear that booming voice anymore.
The total time we spent at the cemetery couldn't have been more than 20 minutes. Then it was off to a quick reception at a nearby hotel, and then home. I couldn't help feeling as we drove between those cemetery gates that we had left something behind that didn't really belong there. It was just a mix-up and we would come back for my uncle later. But that was just illusory too, and soon enough the reality of things settled in and I realized that it was no accident. The coffin was there to stay.
I went back home and tried to put the whole funeral out of my mind by doing some reading for general exams. In my haste, I decided to go straight to the library in my good suit rather than change clothes. This was a mistake. Everyone who saw me asked why I was dressed up. And I had to explain I was at a funeral, and this prompted expressions of sympathy, as one might expect. But I didn't really know how to respond to that. I tried to explain that he was an old man and that it was good that he died peacefully. But my response felt hollow even if I believed every word. Here were people extending sympathy and I was giving some boilerplate response..and after a while making light of the fact that I kept having to explain my suit to people. Perhaps I should have just said "Thank you." and moved on.
That was one lesson I've learned from the day's events, as I've been reflecting these past few hours. Other minor ones involve exercising care in a funeral procession and accepting that not everyone is as compulsively interested in geography as I am. The major thing I saw today, however, and something that I'll need to consider further is how people respond to death and whether one can ever really come to grips with something so final and definite. I watched the people gathered around the grave carefully, and every single person responded differently to the situation. Some cried. Some couldn't watch. Others couldn't turn away or stared down towards the ground in silence. But these are just the public faces of grief. Who knows how they will deal in private and over time? Is there any way to make sense of death?
These are all rhetorical musings, of course. I'm not asking for examples of grieving strategies. But my uncle is dead, and I needed to type some thoughts out on the subject. Perhaps this is just part of my rationalizing process...or maybe grieving? I'm not sure. In either case, I recognize that these musings reveal a rather sharp shift in tone from my normal happy-go-lucky blog post, but there it is. Sorry if it's all too sudden.
