For Whom The Bell Tolls

There are a lot of things I'm looking forward to doing with Cameron - a lot of things I long to teach him. Then there are a few things I'm not looking forward to. One of them is the lesson of mortality: Every living thing dies - us included. It was a concept I figured out before I reached eight - and it was traumatic. I have a very clear memory of crying my eyes out when I realized that my time would eventually end. My mom tried to comfort me as best she could - but she couldn't lie to me and tell me that it wasn't going to happen.

To this day I occasionally go through periods where I have trouble sleeping at night, thinking about my own demise. On those nights I roll over and cuddle with my wife - wanting to take advantage of every moment I have left. About a decade ago it hit a morbid high point - where I was obsessed with it for about a month (I was going through treatment for testicular cancer at the time. Even though I had a very good prognosis - and ultimately beat it with relative ease - the sunbject still dominated my thoughts). I had a tendency to look at every person I interacted with, and briefly imagined their funeral. Yeah, it was pretty sick. But at some level, my awareness of mortality became one of my greatest gifts. I had heard that people with terminal illnesses have a certain sort of appreciation for their condition: they don't waste time worrying about the insignificant crap - they focus on what's important.

I think that our modern aversion to death has given us a kind of delusional hope for immortality - and an overconfidence to boot. We have cosmetic surgery, advancing medicine, a preoccupation with idolizing youth... and enough distractions to keep us happy in the mean time. But at the same time I know too many people who let too many things get between them and their loved ones - all because they assume that they will always have the opportunity to make things better (or worse yet - to hold out until others make it better for them). My second eldest sibling is like that. She's cut off all contact with the family - angry at our parents and suspicious of her siblings (even me, who has yet to do anything to lose her trust). I constantly wonder what will happen when (if) she learns that one of us has passed on.

The ancients had a different take altogether. Not only did they have considerably shorter lives, they had a way of reminding themselves of their own race towards oblivion. Death was an event that surrounded them. Executions were a public matter, and the sight of a corpse was not an unusual thing, even to children. Their art and architecture reflected constant themes of carpe diem... or at the very least, to fulfill your duties to your religion lest your deity claims your soul abruptly.

Even if we manage to distract ourselves from this outcome, I the idea of things coming to an end should govern our actions. As a teacher I constantly deal with change - people that I have grown to love depart for other shores. Students graduate. Colleagues retire, or move to other jobs. Nothing stays the same. To that end, I try to appreciate people while I still have time with them.

So now I look into Cameron's eyes - windows to a mind unburdened by change. He does not yet know that a day will come when I will not be in his life anymore - and I fear for him somewhat. If I am lucky, I will live long enough to see him grow into a man - strong enough to handle the loss. For now - it will have to be enough to give him all the love I can... and long for the day when he understands what that means.