A Hard Day: When Death Speaks Its Wicked Words Again

 

The Message

I woke up this morning to a message from my uncle telling me that my aunt had passed away at 2:30 in the morning. That was about five hours prior to me somewhat consciously entering into a new day—those first moments when you're not quite awake, not quite asleep, checking your phone before your eyes have fully adjusted to the light.

The words on the screen didn't make sense at first. Then they did. Then I wished they didn't.

I had known for less than two weeks that my aunt had cancer of the liver and that it had spread incredibly fast. The kind of fast that doesn't give you time to prepare, to say everything you need to say, to reconcile yourself to what's coming. One day she was there, the next she was diagnosed, and now she's gone. Cancer doesn't care about timelines or goodbyes or the things left unsaid.

She had taken care of my stepmother for the past several years. My father died in 2018, and it was incredibly hard on my stepmother, Jo. My aunt stepped in, did what family does, carried the burden of care with grace and devotion.

The Woman Who Raised Me

Jo had essentially raised me along with my father from the time I was a very little boy. I never really saw her as my stepmother—only referred to her as such out of respect for my birth mother. But she was every bit my mother, and I took on so many of her characteristics. I was every bit her son in all the ways that matter.

Things got pretty bad for Jo while she was staying up in Ohio with her sister. Her health declined in several ways, and she suffered a series of falls, which is never good for someone in their late seventies. Each fall is a risk, a potential catastrophe, a reminder of how fragile these bodies become.

The decision was ultimately made to bring her back to Virginia, where she would stay in her own home, which has been occupied by one of my sons. It's been a roller coaster since her return, but overall, she's been in much better shape than she was up north. Small victories in a long war against time and decline.

The Drive to Richmond

I'm on the way to Richmond now, trying to compose myself, trying to figure out what to say, how to comfort someone who has just lost their sister. I know it is devastating for her. How could it not be?

The road stretches ahead of me, familiar and monotonous. I've driven this route dozens of times, but today it feels different. Today I'm carrying the weight of loss—not just mine, but hers, and the collective grief of a family that keeps shrinking.

Death isn't easy, and it has a way of attacking our vulnerabilities when we least expect it. You think you're prepared. You think you've built walls strong enough to withstand the assault. Then it finds the cracks, the weak points, the places you didn't even know were vulnerable.

The Accumulation of Loss

I still feel the ache over my first wife, Shannon, who passed away almost thirty years ago. Three decades. You'd think that would be enough time to heal completely, but grief doesn't work on a schedule. It doesn't check the calendar and decide it's been long enough.

I still feel the puncture in my heart over my birth mother and my father, who have both been gone nearly ten years. The wound is older now, scarred over, but still tender to the touch.

I still get tears in my eyes when I think of my dogs, who both passed not much more than a year ago. They were my best friends for so very long, and the pain is so very deep. It creeps up on you, takes your breath away, then takes flight and stays silent until it doesn't again. Grief is like that—a predator that circles, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The Nature of Death

Death is a strange thing.

It's not romantic, though I know I have fetishized death in the past. I've photographed cemeteries for forty years. I've written books about burial grounds. I've stood among monuments and mausoleums and convinced myself I understood death, that I had made peace with it.

I know that many people fetishize death—the aesthetics of grief, the beauty of mourning rituals, the romance of Victorian memorial art. But when death actually arrives at your door, when it takes someone you love, there's nothing romantic about it.

It's a cruel thing.

I don't know that we were ever really meant to experience death. I think something along the way went terribly wrong, and we made a mockery of life, and death was our punishment. Maybe that's theological speculation. Maybe that's just grief talking. But standing in the presence of death over and over again makes you question everything about the design of existence.

No matter how comfortable I think I am with death, it always finds a way to slide a knife between my rib cage and bleed out my heart. Each time death speaks its wicked words into my ear again, I lose reverence for life—at least for a while. The world loses color. Meaning feels arbitrary. The things I thought mattered suddenly seem insignificant in the face of this ultimate negation.

Today

Today, I'm in that place.

The dark place where grief sits heavy on your chest and makes breathing feel like work. Where getting in the car and driving to Richmond feels like climbing a mountain. Where finding words to comfort someone else when you can barely comfort yourself feels impossible.

But I'm also grateful. Grateful for what I have. Grateful for the time I had with those I've lost. Grateful that Jo is still here, even as she grieves her sister. Grateful for my sons, my family, the life I've managed to build despite all the losses.

I feel blessed for the experiences I've lived through—even the painful ones, maybe especially the painful ones, because they've shaped who I am. Pain is a teacher, even when it's a cruel one.

What We Share

I just want to be able to share some of that treasure—the hard-won wisdom that comes from surviving loss after loss, from standing back up after grief knocks you down, from learning to carry the weight of accumulated sorrow without being crushed by it.

We all do a lot of sharing of one type or another, especially in this digital realm. We post our highlights, our victories, our carefully curated lives. We present versions of ourselves that are polished and filtered and fundamentally dishonest about the full spectrum of human experience.

But we need to be sure that what we're distributing to others is genuine and from the heart, and not simply the glimmer and the glitz of fool's gold.

Real gold is forged in fire. Real wisdom comes from surviving things you didn't think you could survive. Real connection happens when we're willing to show the broken parts, not just the healed ones.

So today, on this hard day, as I drive to Richmond to sit with my stepmother who has lost her sister, as I carry my own accumulated grief like stones in my pockets, I'm sharing this. Not because it's polished or profound or particularly wise.

But because it's real.

And sometimes, on the hard days, real is all we have to offer.

Death has spoken its wicked words into my ear again. I'm listening. I'm hurting. I'm driving. I'm showing up.

That's all any of us can do.