Burial

Journal
4 Jul 2011

We buried Nate last Wednesday. I and everyone else at the ceremony had an inclination to act somber throughout the affair, to think of it as a significant event. But I have undergone a transformation just as Hans Castorp did, in which I came to recognize death for what it is: a shabby pretender, an outcome of disease, a natural phenomenon, and sometimes it is a joke. Sometimes it is only a final stage, a completely foreseeable progression of a life poorly lived, and as such, not due any particular reverence or expressions of piety or extravagant airs of profundity.

In Nate’s case, death was only the somewhat tardy outcome of the many binary choices he made that favored it over the other outcome, life. He predicted his death several years ago and did little to prevent it, and when it came – no – happened, he probably died in a pool of urine, with bottles of pills and alcohol by his side.

The actual sad part was the bereavement of Grandma and of Nate’s friend Sandy, and a couple of male friends of Nate. They had cared for Nate and not sought much in return. They had given, without pulling back when it became obvious it would end badly and they would get nothing for it. That is the sad part of the story. But the death itself is not something I ought to feel any pangs of awe over.