I have tons of things I want to update everyone on, but neither the time nor inclination seems to be striking me much.
Lindsay’s father passed away last week, so I spent the majority of it attempting to comfort her as best I could. I’m afraid there isn’t all that much I can do, of course. I just try to be there and let her know she can turn to me.
Witnessing the moments and hours after his death did, interestingly enough, start making me think about the way we treat death in the United States (and possible the West). I remember that it seemed strange how simple everything was. I mean, emotionally it was rough (even for me, though I’d only met him a couple of times), but, logistically, it was probably the most simple thing ever, as far as I could tell.
I mean, there are certain guidelines that the government and hospitals and all that follow to do what they do with the bodies. (In this case, his body went to Johns Hopkins Medical School.) Legally and logistically there seem to be few obstacles to dealing with death. The government is used to it and handles it fairly efficiently.
I suppose this is as it should be. The family and friends of the loved one should be given the opportunity to focus on their grief and their loss rather than the ridiculous material concerns of burials and such.
The odd thing is, though, that, I think, most people desire something to do when a death occurs. It’s like the 9/11 attacks. It’s a horrifying, saddening experience that everyone wants to help correct. So, while everything is being taken care of by the proper authorities, friends and family are stuck waiting, thinking, wishing for something to do. But there’s nothing but the minutae left. The Minutae of Death: calling insurance companies; calling other friends and family; retelling the, often mediocre, story of the last hours of his or her life, et cetera. It’s strange.
Lindsay seems to be holding up much better than I expect I would given the same circumstances. She’s a strong girl, whether she wants to admit it or not. She’s really quite the inspiration, even if she thinks she’s broken.
I can attest to this. I’ve been essentially living with her for at least two weeks. I started moving my stuff into her place this weekend. It’s nice. I enjoy being with her. I like sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette and watching a movie with her. It’s very comfortable. The timing, I know, is short and strange to some people, but I think there’s a greater penalty for passing up wonderful opportunities like this. Like my mom said when I told her I was thinking of moving in with Lindsay: “You can’t spend your whole life worrying about what might go wrong. If you do, you’ll miss out on all the good stuff that could happen.” She’s right. I love my mom and Lindsay.