Mourning
Sharon November 6th, 2009
Two weeks ago, my husband called me in frantic muddle, on his way home from work, apologizing for being late, and he knew I was waiting the kids’ bedtime, but he had to go back to work because he’d forgotten something and he was so sorry, and he hadn’t meant to leave it… but …Ranjan died.
I stopped him. Ranjan died? Our Ranjan? Ranjan was Eric’s college roommate and best friend. Eric gathered himself and told me that that morning, Ranjan, on his way to work in Mumbai had collapsed and died of a heart attack. He was young, in good shape and vital and he simply died, the way sometimes people do.
Ranjan was 40 years old, just a year older than Eric. He had two young sons, 3 and 6, and a beloved wife. The last time they’d visited, before they left to spend a few years working in India, Ranjan had told us that his favorite thing in life was simply to be in the kitchen when Roopa, his wife, was cooking. The two were deeply in love, and looking forward to the day when Ranjan could give up his job and afford to try his hand at filmmaking – and have more time at home, more time in the kitchen.
It has been a long time since Eric and Ranjan lived close enough and had enough free time to watch art films together, and argue about capitalism and music, and tease their wives, but it had never, ever occurred to either of them that there wouldn’t be time, someday, eventually, when things slowed down.
Eric is heartbroken with the loss of his friend, and also, his sense that we are still in a place of security. Until now, the hard times he teaches about, the difficult things that we all know are coming – both in the world at large and the difficult cycles that come with all lives, all of them seemed firmly in the future. But if Ranjan, so alive, can die, anything can happen – or so it seems in the throes of grief.
I knew and liked Ranjan, and grieve his loss, but for me without the long, deep history with him, what strikes hardest is my identification with Roopa. This is my nightmare – that someday my husband leaves, and does not come back, and I’m left alone, to go on, but I don’t know how. I’ve always worried about it. Now I know more viscerally that it can happen, and I am not enjoying the knowledge.
On another discussion list that I was on, someone asked us how we will go on when the really tough stuff hits – when people you love die, or when there’s visible suffering all around you. And of course, some people are already there, in my country and all around the world. People die already because of climate change – 1 million a year or more. People die already because of hunger and disease. Beloved people die of tragic things and ordinary things all the time in all of our lives. Among my readers are people who have already endured unendurable grief – the loss of children, of siblings of beloved people in their lives, suddenly and slowly and painfully.
I don’t like to think about death, or about the darker implications of my own work. I do, but I hate it. Someone recently asked me what I thought the “endgame” looked like – and he did not ask from prurience or morbid curiosity. This was a deeply thoughtful and passionate person asking me honestly whether I could bear to think about unchecked climate change, and what I imagined. And I told him – because I can think about it some, I can get part of the way there. But there are things I decline to consider in advance of necessity, and I don’t think that’s bad. When I asked my interlocutor the same question, he didn’t answer it – he told me what he hoped for instead – and that’s ok, fixating on ends is not always necessary.
John Michael Greer observes that when we make a distinction between problem and predicament, the ultimate predicament is death. Problems can be solved. Predicaments, well, we can only choose (and choice only goes so far) how we respond, and imagine and address it. We cannot solve the problem. And in many ways, that’s a hard thing – because we are so accustomed to the world-as-problem.
We cannot solve the predicament of grief. However we address our feelings, or however they play out without our intention, it does not go away. I would hurry through this emotion because I don’t want to experience it. I would hurry Eric through his because I don’t like his being in pain. But grief takes its own sweet time, and I do no one any favors by pretending that while we are dealing with sorrow and fear, they are not dealing with us. And we go forward, as best we can, when we can.
I usually don’t answer questions about how we should deal with things – because I’m not convinced that we *will* deal with things as we believe we should. In the end, I think we’ll do what we do now – mostly keep putting one foot ahead of another, mostly keep doing what we need to, except when we can’t.
For my husband, this is the first time he’s known the grief of the loss of someone who simply should not be dead. Before this, loss came in good time, for grandparents and people who were ill for a long time. He’s fortunate – he made it to 39 years old without this kind of sudden sorrow. And this knowledge comes to all of us in the course of lifetime – all we can do is pray and hope that we don’t have to learn it too often, or too hard. And remember that if we have been fortunate, if we haven’t had to face the deepest sorrows, we should bend down and thank whatever diety or good fortune has permitted that, and set to work redoubled at easing the sorrow of those who weren’t as lucky.
Sharon
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- Comments(23)
Sharon, sorry to hear of your and Eric’s loss. Your post strikes hard right now – only three weeks ago ,y husbands sister and my beloved sister in law died unexpectedly. Her death has hit us hard in so many ways. She was very much the centre point of my husbands family, the linch pin that linked every relative and in law together.
Her death has also brought home very sharply the potential reality of what would happen if my darling darling husband died. How would I go on, how would I cope, what would happen finacially and practically.? He is such a big big part of my life and to even try to imagine life without him is unthinkable.
But now, I do have to think about it and WE have to consider what we have put to one side for so long. It is all well and good looking at the practical issues we deal with day in and day out, such as food stocks, but now I need to stop and really think about what to prepare for if the unthinkable happens to either of us. Time to face up to our mortality and think long and hard about how we want to leave our children and other relatives.
My best wishes to you and Eric right now. I do now how you are feeling.
Sharon, deepest sympathy to you and your husband on the loss of your friend. It is, as you say, a terrible shock on top of the loss when the person who dies is young and death unexpected. Odd, then, that the shock can be as strong when a 90-year-old passes on, but I remember the feeling. Different friends lost: Annie was 30 when she died, Ahmed 40, Helene 90, and each time the pain was unbelievable. It is still hard for me to believe that they are gone, and I am comforted when they come to me in dreams.
The uncertain future for the earth, for human beings, the certain end for each individual. I want our grandchildren to have good lives, of course. In the long, long view, even if human beings go the way of dinosaurs, I hope there will be bees and wildflowers and grasses and reindeer moss. Why should that matter to me? If I am gone, and there are no other human beings to see them, why should a future containing those things comfort me now? I only know that it does. But I hope for better, at least for another millenium.
It feels like a national day of mourning, doesn’t it? Time to pause, remember, honor, reflect.
I’m so sorry for the loss being felt by your family right now.
I’m sorry for Eric’s loss. My husband, also at 40, has yet to lose anyone who was healthy and vibrant. He thinks I am morbid most of the time, because I think about these things, sign us up for life insurance, want to talk about my wishes, etc. I lost 4 close family members the year I was 9, an uncle, 23 and healthy and vibrant, a second father to me. Along with the others who passed (I spent my 9th birthday at a funeral), I changed my world view entirely. Death has always been just around the corner for me. Each time one of my children get sick I twist into knots of fear. It’s better now, but I worry about their health with this future we have staring at us. I feel sad that if one of my children asked me if they should have children, I’d want to say no, no not with what I think will happen.
My sympathies to Eric and your family, Sharon, and Ranjan’s family.
Peace to All,
Shamba
Sharon,
I send my condolences to your family and especially your husband.
I really appreciate your tackling of such a monumentally relevant topic. Death, but especially tragic deaths, change us profoundly as we negotiate grief.
Empathy, I think, is what it all boils down to for most folks.
Regards
So sorry for your families loss.
Sharon,
I am sorry for your loss.
Blessed be.
My condolences to you and Eric. I am pregnant with our fourth and with every pregnancy, I deal with morbid thoughts about my husband’s safety. Needless to say, I send extra blessings when he leaves in the morning…
I’m so sorry, Sharon, for your loss, and Eric’s, and Ranjan’s family.
This is the sort of loss that changes you. My best friend and college suitemate died at 31. That was fifteen years ago and there hasn’t been a day I don’t miss him.
But there also hasn’t been a day I didn’t cherish a little more, knowing how fleeting it might be. His final gift to me.
Hugs your loved ones extra, everyone.
Well, yes, death happens. No wonder that it happens to us all. Eric’s loss is sad, but should it come as any surprise? Only if you exist in denial of the final outcome.
Death.
Is there a relationship with how we feel about it and the way we treat the planet?
For women.
For men.
I’m sorry that Ranjan’s life ended too soon, and I’m sorry for his family’s pain. I’m sorry for Eric’s sorrow.
I am so sorry for the loss of a well loved father, husband and friend. It hurts so.
Yes- I lost two very good friends that go way back- one to breast cancer and another to totally unexpected complications from what should have been routine surgery. I’ve lost older relatives too but it does feel different when you lose your peers who are about your own age. It has been almost a year since one died- was weird when I was cleaning out my e-mails recently to find old e-mails from her- just ordinary stuff, dumb jokes, etc-wondered if I should delete them,save them, print them or? Just left them- wasn’t ready to deal with it yet.
In both cases, they died way too young. It did really reinforce the fragility of life and how we just never know.
I was with my friend when she died of breast cancer. After that I resolved to attempt to eliminate as much as possible from my life that which was not meaningful or was even destructive; quit an awful job that very week! Guess I’ve tried to deal with it by treasuring the years of our friendship and recognizing what a gift my continued existence is, and trying to do more of what I really love to do.
One of these friends was a musician; she had given away a few small gifts of things she liked towards the end, one of which was a small pin. I pinned that to the strap of my fiddle case; every time I take my fiddle to a session I think of her and it is almost as if by doing so I am taking her with me to play music which was the biggest joy of her life(other than her daughter). Maybe Eric can figure a way to honor and remember his friend in a way which will enable his memory to live on…..
My sincere sympathies.
It really does hurt when you lose someone who should not have left so soon.
I have one good story to tell there. Several years ago, I lost such a friend. Very close; very dear, very important to me. And not just to me; this fellow as a spark-plug for the entire state of Minnesota. An Ur-Mensch; if that’s a word (should be.)
Last spring, I was at a greenie meeting- talking to old friends, making some new ones, trying to launch a particular project.
Several folks said, “you need to talk to Larry over there- he’s involved in more than half the legislation in the state.”
Larry was hard to get to, of course; always surrounded. On the 3rd day, I managed to get him alone. He knew I’d been stalking him; wanting serious conversation; which of course made him wary.
I paused; trying to figure out how to start. How to reach this man I knew not at all, and get his attention.
I said, “I’m here because of Dick Broeker.” Which was true; Dick had pulled me into this group at its formation.
Larry melted completely, immediately. We shared a sigh that Dick had left us too soon; then jumped into the business. Never a question, now- we’re on the same team; and still working – with Dick beside us.
It’s a cliché, I know. But the solid good that was in Dick is not gone. Lots of us remember, and he still makes a difference.
It sounds like that may be true of Ranjan, too.
Sending you and your family many hugs, and some tonglen meditation too.
My condolences.
Deb in Wis
Hugs to both of you, prayers for Roopa, from someone who has seen too many close friends and family leave too soon.
To Sharon and to Babs,
Loving arms reach out to you and your loved ones.
Deep peace of the running wave to you,
Deep peace of the shining star,
Deep Peace of the flowing air to you,
Deep peace of the silent earth.
May peace, may peace,
May peace fill your soul.
May peace, may peace,
May peace make you whole.
My beloved partner’s sister also died unexpectedly almost 3 weeks ago. Just a couple weeks before she was supposed to head down to MD Anderson in Houston for a bone marrow transplant expected to cure her of leukemia.
We are all still in grief. And I too visit the possibility of the loss of my partner, or his loss of me, in this time of sorrow.
May we all breathe in the grief of sudden unexpected loss and all breathe out healing to each other, and to all the world.
May the veil. that has been so permeable recently, close again now.
Blessed Be.
Sara
You know, Bill, I’m reminded by what Roland Barthes says in an essay on the famous photos that circulated called _The Great Family of Man_ – he observes that yes, we all live, we all die, we all eat, we all sleep – but in erasing the particularity of suffering – the fact that there is a radical difference between the 3 year old dying of diarrhea, the 20 year old soldier killed in war, or the old man dying his bed – we erase what honestly matters. Saying we all die isn’t a very interesting observation – most of us are still surprised when the day comes for us.
Sharon
So sorry for your loss.
Sharon, please accept my condolences for the loss of your and Eric’s friend. As one who has had to go through the grieving process for expected and unexpected deaths, I can assure you that the pain does pass in time. It seems like it may take ages, but the world without your loved one in it gradually becomes your new reality. You are forever changed but nothing can take away the past joy you experienced as a result of knowing this person.
I am so sorry for your families’ loss. Wishing you comfort in your grief.
A year or two ago a good friend, who, like me, is married to a man several years older than she is, read a book by a woman whose husband died unexpectedly of a heart attack. It was about how she survived the first year, and the strange small madness in her thoughts during that time. My friend found the book profound and recommended it to me, but after starting, I found that I could not read it, or even stand to have it near me. One of the weirdest things I’ve ever experienced — it made me fear that somehow reading it or even being too close to it would cause the loss of my own husband, and as bizarre and superstitious as that was, I could not shake it. Decided I’d just have to live without whatever wisdom the book may have had to impart.
I, too, spend too much time in fear of losing my loved ones. But life will unfold however it does, fear or no fear, and so I keep reminding myself that fearing does no one, including me, any good. Best just to breathe and move on. easier said than done, of course, but all you can do is keep practicing.