It just hits you, doesn’t it? This stark, unyielding truth: death sucks. It’s a full-stop, a finality that slams down with the force of a teacher snatching away a test a student is cheating on. I remember seeing this once and it seemed so forceful, so final. All the could-haves, the should-haves, the tomorrows brimming with possibility – suddenly, they’re just…done. Ripped away.
That’s the image that keeps surfacing in my mind lately, a student’s test yanked away, the future answers forever unknown. It’s a strange comparison, I know. The mind, in its pecuilar way, tries to find anchors, even in the most unlikely of places. Perhaps it’s a twisted form of self-preservation, this bizarre analogy, a way to compartmentalize the enormity of loss. The mind plays tricks, skews stories, builds its own strange logic in the face of the unbearable.
Today, the cold, hard reality of that finality feels particularly sharp. My daughter’s income tax assessment arrived, a sterile document that feels like the bureaucratic erasure of her very existence. I understand the paperwork, the necessary steps in closing an account. But it feels like finalizing the end of her story, watching her presence on this earth slowly fade into the official records. The last of the items to check off.
In a short month, my ‘year of firsts’ will be complete. Finalized. Ripped away, just like that test. I used to cling to the idea that surviving this first year would somehow make things better, that a sense of healing would finally descend. But it hasn’t. The clarity of her voice in my head, the vividness of her face, the tangible memory of her embrace – they remain so fresh, so real. And the terrifying thought that these precious fragments might eventually fade is a constant shadow.
I can still picture that last Friday morning. She’d slept in as usual and was racing up the stairs at my house, she was temporarily bunking with us. We’d returned late from Peru, at about 2 am the night before, but my internal clock stubbornly woke me at six. I hadn’t minded the early start, busying myself with laundry, unpacking, tidying, and emails. We had just returned from two weeks in Peru. What an adventure… I’d even tried cuy – guinea pig. Ugh, don’t make that face; it was a small piece, stringy and nothing like chicken, but I’d done it. My daughter, predictably, was unimpressed. So as a silly gesture for her comments, I’d bought her guinea pig socks.
So, when she appeared at the top of the stairs, I’d tossed her the ridiculous socks. A laugh, a sideways glance – that was her. I had some sweets for her too, as she was heading out to the bush for a few days with work. Tucking them under her arm, she’d asked, “Mom, how was Peru?” “Oh, it was so good…” I’d started, but she’d cut me off, “Mom, you talk too much. I have to go, I’m already late. We can chat on Monday when I’m back.” And then she was gone, a whirlwind out the door.
Who knew that would be the last time I’d hear her voice? I didn’t say “I love you.” I didn’t say “I missed you.” But I did appreciate her, in that moment, for her tardiness, for her very being. It even made me smile.
Sitting here now, wrestling with this clearance letter for her CRA account, it feels surreal. I understand the necessity of the paperwork, the bureaucratic dance we must perform. But the whole situation feels fundamentally wrong, unfair. It’s crap.
I often find myself circling back to a strange sense of gratitude – that I possess the skills to navigate this administrative maze, even through the waves of frustration. Eventually, I’ll decipher the forms, complete the process. But what about those who lack this support, who are already drowning in grief? Death, in its absolute finality, is brutal enough. All this other… junk… just makes the weight of it even heavier. Another project, another piece of paper reminding me that she’s gone. What can I say?
Death sucks.