What is Appropriate to Say?
When we walked back into his hospital room after the nurses removed Richard from the breathing machine, we watched the small point in his stomach pulsating, small bursts that decrescendo. Kristalyn looked over her mother, while Ryan looked over her. Steven watched over Robin and Tom—he watched over all of us. I wrapped my arms around myself and held my coat closer to my body. It was a sad attempt at holding myself together.
Some of us shed a few tears, and when I say that—it’s not as if we didn’t care because we didn’t cry hard. I think all we could manage was a few tears, because if we let go, if we bought into the idea of hysterical crying, bawling, we would have broken down and never recovered. A few tears, a runny nose, and some red eyes—it’s all we can manage to give now, because there is still so much more for all us to do. We can grieve later, privately—I’ve never known us to be public with our feelings.
I’m staring and wondering—what’s appropriate to say? Do I recap a man’s life so now you can know what type of man that the world lost yesterday? Or do I tell you about how mourning Richard makes me feel guilty, because I want to believe he is in a better place and no longer suffering, but part of me wishes he was still here to enrich others. Neither seems right, but I will share something about my feelings for Richard—I have epilepsy like Richard, but mine is ever so slight compared to what he had to endure, but I felt connected to him because of it. I knew what it was like to have an attack in public and be embarrassed. I knew what it was like to have your life hampered because of it. I knew how important it was to make your life seem as normal as possible because of it. And then to spend your entire life to be a better and bigger person than your ailment, to be so self-defined, so dynamic, so concrete that there was no room for the ailment to define you. And for that, I will always admire him.
Some of us shed a few tears, and when I say that—it’s not as if we didn’t care because we didn’t cry hard. I think all we could manage was a few tears, because if we let go, if we bought into the idea of hysterical crying, bawling, we would have broken down and never recovered. A few tears, a runny nose, and some red eyes—it’s all we can manage to give now, because there is still so much more for all us to do. We can grieve later, privately—I’ve never known us to be public with our feelings.
I’m staring and wondering—what’s appropriate to say? Do I recap a man’s life so now you can know what type of man that the world lost yesterday? Or do I tell you about how mourning Richard makes me feel guilty, because I want to believe he is in a better place and no longer suffering, but part of me wishes he was still here to enrich others. Neither seems right, but I will share something about my feelings for Richard—I have epilepsy like Richard, but mine is ever so slight compared to what he had to endure, but I felt connected to him because of it. I knew what it was like to have an attack in public and be embarrassed. I knew what it was like to have your life hampered because of it. I knew how important it was to make your life seem as normal as possible because of it. And then to spend your entire life to be a better and bigger person than your ailment, to be so self-defined, so dynamic, so concrete that there was no room for the ailment to define you. And for that, I will always admire him.
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on Sunday, November 27 at 11:58 AM.
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9:23 PMYou do so much for so many people... it seems almost unfair you should have to deal with this.
My condolences, in the sorry absence of advice I am unfit to offer.
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