What I Learnt About Death

My Grandfather was a good man.

As a young man, he served his country in battle, fighting for the freedom of those unable to defend themselves against the tyrants who imposed their will on the world. As a working man he served his community, fighting for fairness and equality of those who worked alongside him, trading blows with the heavyweights of industry whose tanks and shells had long-since been replaced with cuts in wages and inequitable conditions, and where men who worked themselves into early graves for paltry sums underpinned the few who grew continuously richer from their efforts. As a family man, he fought to preserve the innocence of his children in a changing world which saw men walk on distant rocks and peer into the far-flung reaches of the galaxy; and as an Old Man, he served his peers, his church, and his community, offering shelter and sustenance to those in need of his Christian charity. A man whose honour and decency was well-represented by the hundreds who mourned his passing, and passed glorious platitudes to those who knew and loved him most, lining the wood-adorned walls, smiling solemnly and shaking hands with the well-wishers who wished him well in his passing. Those who knew him well, loved him well, and remarked to his widow as such. And through tear-stained dignity, she accepted each gracious apology for his loss, followed by his children—my father and uncle—then by the grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and countless nieces and nephews.

His funeral was a procession of fallacy. I remember the unseasonable warmth of those early weeks that spring. When my Grandmother (on my mother’s side) had passed just four weeks before, the heavens had opened and cried every tear in sympathy with the congregation, who in their dozens had drowned out the rain with a heartfelt rendition of "Amazing Grace" by the graveside. Unlike that day, where restless skies invoked memories of her passion, and howling winds shook the avenue of trees to their very foundations as the Gods themselves made known their displeasure, my Grandfather’s funeral was one of peace and quiet dignity almost becoming the man, where the hints of pink and green peaked from buds on bare trees, wracked and naked by the harsh winter that had savaged the county, and from behind solemn clouds the faintest traces of sunlight began to break through. Inside, as the seats quickly filled and the latecomers lined the walls three-deep, an arrangement of violets gently gave out a sweet aroma which filled the gentle breeze which wafted through the chapel. One by one, old friends from all walks of life recanted tales to the man we had each loved so dearly, as tears flowed freely and hands clutched others for strength, and spoke of him finding peace.

Peace...

It was the speed of his passing which gave rise to the most discomfort. Having seen four-score and six years of conflict and peace, recession, and growth, and social and technological evolution beyond the wildest dreams of the brightest minds of his generation, his body had become so ravaged by the years that, when he finally passed, his features were vastly changed from those which had once been so desired; wrinkled flesh hanging loosely from sunken cheeks, darkened and lifeless eyes begging to be released into the ever after.

My Grandfather had spent time, in his final days, conversing with a priest with whom he had regularly spoken. My Grandfather had told him, he said, of the pride he felt in knowing the joys of a family across four generations, how he had lived a good and fulfilling life in which he had no regrets, and how he felt that he had had his time—and that it was time to leave. As the man offered a eulogy which spoke again of peace and contentment, and how our beloved Husband / Father / Uncle / Brother / Grandfather had left us to move on to a better place—where his deeds would be rewarded in Heaven. How, in what was to be their last conversation, they had talked of faith, and of spirituality, and of God. Having succumbed to the ravages of the illness which took him from us, his body faded to flesh and bones, and his mind lost its sensibilities, I heard from the small bedroom which would become the mausoleum in which he drew his last breath confused screams in which he begged to be taken, and sobbed angry tears that God didn’t want him, his fervour more venomous as each hour passed. And as we waited, and the bouts of arduous screaming gave way to muffled prayers for forgiveness, as his heart stopped and ours broke, a blanket of silent solemnity was drawn over us all, and he found the peace he had been searching for. But in that moment, as swelling eyes heard empty words about a good man with nothing but satisfaction from his days, I remember feeling, in spite of the hundreds of mourners, completely and utterly alone.

You may wonder the purpose of my telling you this, but it brought to my mind a single thought which has since reiterated my every decision, and in turn shaped the course of each of our lives since that day, where chances have been taken so that regrets are few. Whatever your thoughts may be on the existence and / or purpose of a higher being, this I hold to be true:

Even Good Men die screaming, so if we all go out the same way then we’d better make the best of the time we have.