The Envy of the Dead

When I was fifteen, my Grandmother on my mother’s side died.  Grandmother and I were separated by great distance most of the time, so I did not know her as well as my other grandmother.  But I can remember being outraged on her behalf with the sense of propriety that only an adolescent can muster against the lesser-ness of her elders, in the face of the laughter and loud and even boisterous chatter of those visiting the family at the funeral home.  There was even cigar smoke, for God’s sake.  Who were these people and how dare they ignore the reality of my grandmother’s body lying right in front of them?  It was an insufferable affront.

My memories of that time remind me of Tolstoy’s novella The Death of Ivan Ilyich, in which, as I recall it, Ivan Ilyich grows increasingly resentful over the seeming lack of care from his family about the very clear reality that he is dying.

I wonder, though, were they truly uncaring or were they simply doing what the living do: living?

As I sit with others in caring for my dear and dying friend Stu, it is clear that Stu does not resent that our lives continue without him.  He regrets it; he is sad for what he will miss.  But he does not begrudge the living their lives, their continuity.

Should I suffer like Stu and Ivan Ilyich, should I have the slow rather than quick kind of meeting with death and dying, will I begrudge the living?  Or will I rejoice in their largess even as I regret its loss in my own journey?

Will I hate the laughter surrounding my body as the living discuss the cares of the living; will I resent it even then?

I hope that my corpse will be filled with grace rather than resentment, acceptance and love rather than envy.

That would be a good death, I think.