
NOTE: I recorded audio narration for this one along with a spot of original music so you can listen if that’s your thing.
I’ve come to understand that death is a real possibility.
I’m a slow learner or maybe I’ve just been incredibly lucky for fifty-four years. I know it happens in any manner of ways. I’ve written extensively about it in my novels. I’ve offed enough characters in the last fifteen years to achieve serial killer status. And yet death has only ever brushed past me like an unremarkable stranger on a crowded street.
The other morning, I had to narrate the death scene of a beloved character in my novel “Harmony House.” No big deal. I didn’t prepare.
I cleaned up the usual overnight mess left by my beloved, aging, and incontinent dog who does his best to find the pee pads through his milky cataracts but always fails. I had a cup of Chai and did my daily call to check in with my 84-year-old parents who have reached the point of no longer being able to live independently. We nearly lost my father again a couple of months back. In May we will be selling the home they’ve lived in for over thirty years and bringing them to live near my brothers and me here in Atlanta. This move severs the last physical tie I have to the little town in the mountains of North Carolina where I was born and raised.
Going through my inbox, I read an email from a childhood friend who recently received a death sentence. Their ALS diagnosis came last month. They reported on their condition in the open letter to all of us with such strength and matter-of-factness. They likely won’t survive to see their only child graduate from college. I remembered the weekend in 1998 when we traveled back to our hometown to celebrate their wedding and there was a ritual with a bonfire where we all removed our clothes and tossed them into the flames. Bare-assed and shivering in the cold autumn night we laughed and drank and spoke in Monty Python dialects.
It was just another morning, and I had a schedule to keep, especially now that I’m back in the real world, trading my time for money and not creative whimsy.
I took my laptop into the small bathroom draped with blankets to sit in front of the microphone and narrate episode 29. It was terrible. The prose was wooden, cliché. I rewrote twenty-five percent of the chapter for the next two hours without leaving the bathroom or using its facilities. It was good enough. It had to be. I had a deadline to keep.
I began to read. And I began to cry. My chest ached. I stopped the recording and tried to breathe for a few minutes. I began again, struggling to contort my mouth into the shape it takes to give voice to this collection of characters, but they all sounded like me— scared, sad, and hollow. I read some more and cried some more. It took three times longer to capture the 3,000 words that make up a typical chapter in this story. I was exhausted.
I’ve never been happy-go-lucky. It’s fair to say that I’ve lived most of my life in a quiet, well-behaved existential crisis. I’ve always expected a lot from this life. I’ve often been disappointed. I am a house-trained artist. On the artistic spectrum, I could be considered high-functioning. I graduated from college. I married and had two beautiful children. I taught myself a trade and found gainful employment to provide for my family. I paid for their college – well, I’m still paying for their college but they’ve both graduated. I took so much of this for granted because I was unfulfilled creatively. What would have been enough for most normal people was not enough for me.
I wanted to write songs and perform them. I wanted to write novels and publish them. I wanted to travel across Europe, sit in a café and observe the world. I didn’t want a life in the suburbs. I didn’t want to commute to a job in a tower and sit in a cubicle under flickering fluorescent lights writing code for software that would make a corporation hundreds of millions of dollars no one deserving would ever see. But I did these things. They were necessary for the privilege of being a father and I don’t regret a day.
Now, my dog is dying. My parents are getting close to the last chapter. My friend is dying, and my heart is breaking for them. I don’t know how any of this works. With every day that passes I realize how little I truly know about this life and how to live it well. This massive void of knowledge renders me useless to my kids as they struggle to begin the adventure of adulting.
But at least, for now, I get to be here to try.
Some Recommendations
There are two wonderful writers and human beings I have come to know in the past year who dive deep into these dark waters and shine a bright light. I’ve found such wisdom and solace in reading/listening to their work and I think you might too.
writes where she publishes these meditative pieces that explore, well, death and birds which seems like an odd thing to hang your hat on but trust me, it all makes sense when you read her. writes where she publishes both her own story as a serialized memoir and stories about other people who suffer from chronic or terminal illnesses. Her work embraces the brokenness and the idea of living “unfixed” which is ultimately liberating and inspiring. She was kind enough to interview me recently about my novel, “The Memory of My Shadow,” and I enjoyed our conversation so much.
If your heart is open enough to share this kind of vulnerability, then you’re doing this life thing just right. Sending love to you, your family, and your friend. I hope today is a good day for each of you.
"I began to read. And I began to cry. My chest ached. I stopped the recording and tried to breathe for a few minutes. I began again, struggling to contort my mouth into the shape it takes to give voice to this collection of characters, but they all sounded like me— scared, sad, and hollow. I read some more and cried some more. It took three times longer to capture the 3,000 words that make up a typical chapter in this story. I was exhausted."
Geez Ben, I'm so sorry this was such a big effort of a chapter for you to pull off. We never would have known, and you delivered an incredible punch and reveal with the chapter this week.
As for the rest, my heart goes out to you my friend. Thank you for sharing so openly. I think doing such is brave and important. I hope your dog is at least comfortable. I hope your parents find comfort in moving closer. I hope your friend is able to navigate their diagnosis and live to the fullest for as long as possible. And I hope you, Ben, get to find all the creative success you so deserve.