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August 17, 2006
Incomprehension. Rage.
Such is the state of modern man, according to Sartre. I don't spend a lot of time reading French existentialists. Neither does Dubya, so let's just put that shit to bed, shall we?
On July 25, my good friend Tom Cole died of a heart attack at the age of 43.
On August 10, my grandfather passed away at 92.
On August 12, my 61-year-old aunt Bev lost her battle with cancer. We buried her on Tuesday, the day after my father got back from burying his father back east with my grandmother.
Today, I was called up for jury duty.
I feel like the star of a Neil Simon play that written for a very harried Jack Lemmon who's fraught with pain, bourgeois hobgoblins and an overriding sense of his own insignificance. Enumerating the above for an audience makes me feel especially selfish and small-minded.
I don't need sympathy. Rachel lost Tom, her partner, the love of her life. They had plans.
My fiercely independent grandfather spent his last year relying on Dad, Ella and a retinue of home health care workers for everything.
It wasn't enough that my brilliant, irascible aunt was debilitated at age 48 by a stroke -- she was diagnosed with late-stage lung and brain cancer last Thanksgiving. My parents visited her at the hospice every day.
"Nothing especially bad has happened to me," is what I want to say. "It's everyone else who's getting the worst of it," is what I want to tell people when they offer me a kind word. But I duck my head a little, and say "thank you."
Liz and I did our best to lighten to load on my parents last weekend by driving to Arizona. We're hosting Rachel in the sunny back room that was formerly a depository for collapsing boxes and unwanted furniture. I'm going to Aspen tomorrow for a memorial service to celebrate Tom's life with his friends and family.
I'll write more about each of these individuals separately, soon.
But I'll tell you something: when I called the automated line last night and found out I'd been confirmed to appear this morning for jury selection, I thought of how Tom, Bev or my grandfather would have faced it, and I followed my instinct.
When I walked into the living room, unable to stop laughing, Liz did seem a little concerned.
Posted by Your Protagonist at August 17, 2006 09:16 PM