Death and a Promise

Good Day Virtual Readers, it appears I'll post a new weblog every three years whether I need to or not. It would appear that I need to. In my time away from this warm, steamy pile of shite I call a weblog, I hope everyone is living well and happy. That is not pressure from me to do so, just a hope I have for all of you.

Death is a funny thing. Not funny haha but funny strange. Not that we all don't have some experience with shedding our mortal coil, we do, or most of us do. When this mortal coil shedding happens it is most likely a loved one that we know and love. Or in my case, know. And usually we have the support of other loved ones and a mutual love and affection for the recently departed. A misery loves company sort of deal. We gather and celebrate their life. There are tears and laughs and that creepy uncle who may or may not have touched me. Too much?

Recently, like the paint is still wet, I've come face to face with the old grim reaper. Clearly I'm not speaking about me as I wouldn't be able to type this crap if Mr. Reapy had touched me. Apparently I'm very touchable.

No, I'm speaking of a death that happened out of the blue. A human consciousness that was here one minute and the next it was not. Although the timeline stretches out a wee bit more than that, you take my meaning.

I didn't know this human being, I exchanged a brief word minutes before the light went out of his eyes and his consciousness departed for parts unknown.

I didn't see what happened, but I did see what was left behind and how good people rallied around this empty body to try and bring life back.

Eventually people who do this sort of thing for a living showed up and continued to try and bring back life, to get the departed consciousness interested in, not only coming back but staying. Said consciousness was not interested.

Up until the professional life savers showed up, two people, two very everyday, go to work, love my family, I don't try to save lives for a living people, worked tirelessly to save this soul whom they didn't know.

The ground on which they worked, and this person died, was frozen solid. The cold was brutal and it gnawed at them while they continued to compress with seemingly endless endurance. 1, 2, 3, 4, a tempo that they traded off to when their endless endurance turned out to have a limit. The sun was shinning but it was a hard sun and the task at hand was much harder by unrelenting degrees.

As the minutes stretched on and the rest of us did what we could to help, we all waited to hear the sound of sirens. The sound that help is on the way even though, in this case, it was only going to help the two people working on the cold. 1, 2, 3, 4, . . .

These two compassionate people allowed me to see the good in us humans that sometimes is hard to see and much easier to forget we have. They allowed me to see this so much that I feel shame. Not the, I've been caught looking at the National Geographic pics kind of shame, just a small twinge, a knowing that it takes a certain kind of person to put yourself in that position of responsibility.

True responsibility. I marvel at their ability to do this. And I thank them, then and now, for using their ability to do so. As I'm sure the person who died on the frozen ground would do if that was a possible thing.

As I have stated, no one at this scene, initially, was a professional in saving lives and even if they were, it likely wouldn't have changed the outcome.

If these two people have the same sense of this as I do, and that is an assumption I shouldn't make, trying your best has no luster when the outcome isn't what you would like or hope for.

Because in the grand scheme the trying is really a small thing compared to the dying. Compared to the understanding that a consciousness winked out on a cold, frozen parking lot. A place barren of family, laughter and warm memories of the dearly departed.

I hope that being surrounded by people who were willing to try serves as suitable send off, considering the conditions in which this was met.

I hope this and yet . . .

AW