Happy faces for Uncle Cliff

I used to chat online with my brother a lot. Since he had moved away our busy lives made voice calls difficult, and since he got sick, he was stranded next to the computer a lot. It was a huge help in keeping us connected and rebuilding the tattered relationship left over from our youths.

My son would frequently want attention during these chat sessions, and he was very attracted to the cartoonish emoticons and other brief, goofy animations you could send to your correspondent; to say hi with a mummy, or let a vampire tell them their breath stank, or whatever. Pretty soon, Brian would want to "send happy faces to Uncle Cliff" all the time. Sometimes Uncle Cliff was at the computer on the other end, sometimes not; Brian like to interact with him, but was also well-entertained just clicking on the cartoons, which worked fine even if no one was watching on the other end.

My brother was good with my little son. He'd tolerate the toddling imp, his ridiculous energy, and even enjoy his crazy kid nonsense much more than I did. He could key into it in a way that I still wish I could better emulate. He also enjoyed the chat interaction with Brian, and would throw all the weirdest animations right back at Brian that he could find, and crack him up.

Right after my brother died, Brian would still want to "send happy faces to Uncle Cliff." I couldn't tell whether he intended that Uncle Cliff was on the other end of it, or if that's just what he'd come to call the act of clicking on those cartoons. Just to be sure, I had to gently explain that Uncle Cliff couldn't send happy faces back any more. It kills me, this contrast between nostalgia, tragedy and the unknowing innocence of a five year-old boy.

I still remember you, bro. We all still have happy faces for Uncle Cliff.

Ha, ha

"Joke" on boat leads to four deaths

The men had been boating at the reservoir Sunday, when one man was pushed into the water as a joke. According to the Power County sheriff, that man couldn't swim. The other three men jumped in after him, and all four drowned.

Holy crap, this is just pathetic. I know there's some jokes in there, but I can't see weeding them out. This is human stupidity made thick and real. Ech, I can hardly imagine.

Cliff's funeral

We had Cliff's funeral yesterday. It was brief, but it did the job.

By "did the job," I mean that it gave a lot of us a chance to get together as a unique community and remember him. I'm turning out to be quite an isolationist, but I have to say it felt proper and natural to sit with people in this grief, and stand in front of them and try to tell them what I had lost, what they had lost.

Through lack of preparation (mostly my own), I allowed someone else to give Cliff's eulogy: his ex-wife's brother Chris. He did a fine job, and I felt a stab of shame that I wasn't up there doing it myself. Kirk, the pastor/priest/religious muckety-muck (I can't keep the titles straight) neared the end of the prayers and speeches, he offerred to let some of the attendees say a few words about Cliff. I was grateful for the chance to do so, and I sprinted out of my pew like a runner off the mark. I had been thinking for weeks about what I would say about my brother, and although wisps of thought would blow through my empty head, somehow a lifetime of experiences wouldn't line up and play nice for this presentation.

Still, I had been able to cobble together a few key points, that my brother was intelligent, compassionate and courageous, and that we'd lost a good man. I managed to walk the line between grief and stoicism without disintegrating and croak out a few minutes of this tribute in an anguish groan of a voice, which I wasn't at all sure that I could manage until it was done. It's not as good as he deserved (my brother deserved an army of people to fill that place and take a week to wail and praise his humanity), but it was an able attempt.

I was tremendously heartened by others who stood up to say a few words on my brother's behalf, two of whom were from his ex-wife's family. My brother had taken them into his home for months at a time when they had pitifully few other options, and helped to raise their children as some sort of a family unit at a time when their lives were in a tremendous state of fluctuation. I knew in the back of my mind that he had done things like that, but it was wildly bolstering to be reminded, and to know that those people remembered and still appreciated his generosity and sacrifice on their behalf. When I said he was a better man than me, this is just one example.

We collected afterward and I reflected on his openness with people and how it contrasts with my own detachment. He took to people much better than I ever did, warmed to them and accepted them with an open and generous heart, and I am only beginning to realize and admire the courage that that took. I am getting to an age where I can see more and more clearly that my own detachment is a huge mistake.

This is just one of the lessons I am taking from Cliff's loss. It's been a lesson for which the price was far too great - I'd much rather be ignorant and have my brother back. Since that's not an option, I'll have to do my best not to waste what benefit his passing has bestowed.

If I should (nearly) die...

"Morbid fascination with death" is a term often attributed to people who spend an inordinate amount of time thinking or researching the subject. One who doesn't look close enough might make the mistake of painting me with such a brush. They'd be wrong, but not as far off as you might think.

I was listening to NPR's Fresh Air again today, and an E.R. doctor was on, talking about the many decisions and circumstances involved with impending death. It not only brought to the surface the struggles during my own mother's last days (and years), but considerations about my own. That makes two fantastic, provocative interviews in a row - nice going F.A.!

A degree of intrinsic comfort is afforded to me whenever it comes to thoughts of my own demise. Maybe it's because I'm fat and happy and live a comfortable life, that the specter of Death appears distant, that the idea is not discomforting or threatening. Perhaps it is because the idea of The End represents in part a laying down of life's burdens. I don't welcome it, but for some reason I take a measure of pleasure in recreationally considering its aspects. I've cheerfully blogged about the topic before, focusing on the practical matter of disposing of my bloated, smelly carcass. Today I'll muse on my medical concerns, assuming we get the chance to see death coming, rather than an abrupt end where practical medical arrangements are not a factor.

The consideration of all of the desires, possibilities and circumstances involved in a person's foreseen-but-unavoidable death are more than another mortal should be saddled with. If the slightest care is taken to consider the wants of the decedent-to-be, there are no wrong answers. Do the best you can, more or less - that's plenty.

I certainly have my own worries and desires should something awful happen to my corpus ridiculi, but they wax and wane and slosh around in my head, and what I want now at a chubby and spry 37 may not pan out if I am stricken with a disease or simply the effects of old age. With that in mind, it borders on the narcissistic to demand from family, doctors and/or lawyers that this or that be done to the point of lawsuits and squabbling. *I* don't even know for sure what I want. I'm not comfortable at all with feeding tubes or respirators or transfusions, but since I'm not burdened with an organized faith to tell my how to live (and die), thank god those religious points are moot. Plus, I'm not currently prepared to anticipate the labyrinthine possibilities before they (probably won't) happen, much less write them all out. Call me lazy, but I'm taking the cheap and easy way out; call it my legacy.

My desires are more about practicality than pride, although pride can factor into it. My concerns aren't much different than many people's, including those I heard of my parents' when such discussions were necessary: comfort versus pain, and care versus cost. If I'm in pain, numb me. If I'm drooling, moaning or unresponsive, do what you can stand. Unfortunately, with the state of modern care, the cost of hospital stays dwarf the same stays in luxury hotels, so long term care is just out. I'll be goddamned if my hanging on for another month is worth the cost of a home or massive, crushing debt.

Bullet.

Even if home care is an option, it's not a likely candidate, especially if I'm unable to think, communicate or care for myself in basic ways. I don't doubt that my family loves me enough to wipe my ass and feed me a few times a week, but I've seen households that live that way and it is repulsive to me on the same level as torture. Not only does it trouble me (maybe this is where pride comes in, I don't know), but in that event I would consider my caretakers/loved ones the tortured more than myself.

This whole discussion changes direction on a dime - what if there's hope of a cure or other uptick? What if there's question about who owns the legal right to decide? God save me from being a Terry Schiavo. These are the excruciating twists that madden good people, and I don't want any part of it.

Again: bullet.

Smother me with a pillow, pull my plug or trip over my oxygen hose before I or anyone I care about suffers from any unanswerable questions, impossible ethical knots or horrendous financial responsibility owing to the our collective, hideous inability to assemble a fair method of funding and managing a medical care system.

On the other hand, if I'm rich as a lord or my insurance is top-notch at the time, hey, let's talk about this for a minute. Fluff my pillow, and swab my aft deck, and be quick about it. But otherwise leave me out of it, and let my loved ones lose not a moment of sleep about it.

My wife can cook

Holy shit, can my wife fry a fish.

Someday, when I'm lying powerless in the aftermath of the inescapable and final stupid action that is my ultimate undoing, I fully expect that as my life flashes before my eyes one of its singular pleasures - and exquisitely regrettable in that it is never again to be - will be that of a meal including cold beer and my wife's fried, salted trout.

In the event of my demise...

Recently, my wife's aunt died. She'd had health problems for years, and rather than an altogether sad event, her passing was viewed as a release from the pain and stifling bonds she had endured.

Unfortunately, her death came at a time when the financial resources of those around her were at a low point. She had made some arrangements for her final resting place long before her passing, but the nothing near the total costs were conceived nor paid for. A plot was bought long ago, but nothing else. Sacrifices were made to accommodate her remains with dignity, but even at that, some concessions were necessary. In the end, we simply couldn't afford to properly heed even her simple wishes. I didn't know the woman well, but even so our inability to put her to rest in the manner she desired troubled me, and I know it was very upsetting to her loved ones.

Unfortunately, the company behind the resting place of her choosing wasn't interested in answering questions, only whether cash, check or credit card would be used. Vultures. What a racket it all seems to be, when a family of limited means is struck by loss and is caught over a barrel. Caught in a choice between thousands of dollars in unexpected debt or discarding your loved one's remains without dignity or respect for their wishes - it's a terrible choice to be made.

I ain't goin' out like that. In the event of my death, I want to be put to rest in the same fashion in which I hope to have lived: cheaply.

There's no shame in that. As I write this, I am reminded of my Dad's request for his own casket, discussed around the time of my Mom's death. He described his wishes in two simple, abrupt words: "Pine box."

My only rebuttal: "What the Hell's wrong with cardboard, Rockerfeller?"

I am lucky enough to have a few good people around me who will be stricken by my own end. Let that be enough misery for one day, and let my own arrangements be settled for less than the cost of a decent laptop, not a decent automobile. Let me be cremated over a campfire where hobos drink cheap liquor and get warm, but complain bitterly about the smell. Let me be buried in the Sierra Nevada mountains - someplace high up, with nice soft dirt, (none of the Calaveras rockscrabble of my own back yard) easy for the gravedigger to get into; why ruin his day? - someplace not too far from a dirt road, when the Ranger ain't lookin'. Let me be buried in a shallow hole, with my feet stickin' out so the skunks and wolves can gnaw off my toes, if only it prevents my family and friends from digging into their shallow pockets (or further) to take care of my empty husk.

Hey, while we're at it (and since I'm none too worried about the condition of my postmortem remains), I really should sign up to be an organ donor...

I don't think funeral services should cost more than a Mexican vacation. Since I bring it up, I don't think funeral services should cost more than a Mexican combo plate, but I guess I'll have to be realistic.

What I do want is for the event of my mortal release to be a mixture of happy and sad. I hope to be discussed, remembered, celebrated, criticized, gossiped over, slandered, memorialized and drank to. None of these things cost much at all - most cost nothing, save for the booze. I want to be the center of attention for the night, while I'm too dead to be embarrassed by the regard.

Now that I've made someone else's Moment of Truth all about me, my work here is done. I hope this writing serves to guide those left behind. I hope my send-off is meaningful, inexpensive and easy, in every manner possible. It seems selfish to me to do otherwise. And fuck the undertakers.