The Witness: The Rolling Waves of Death

 The Witness: The Rolling Waves of Death

TW: Death, dying

Everyone's heard that grief comes in waves.

Sometimes it comes as a small nudge, surf breaking over shore, a small reminder that it was Blake who usually did this chore, or skipping the ice cream aisle entirely, because there's no one at home to eat it all, reaching for my phone before I realize there's no one on the other end to appreciate my observation.

Other times, it's a riptide. It comes out of nowhere, dragging me under, leaving me gasping for breath. And as any good Floridian knows, fighting it will only result in drowning.

The nudges are constant, gentle saltwater lapping over my feet and ankles, sometimes covering my shins or splashing up to my knees. Sometimes surprising, constant, but tolerable.

The latest riptide came in pieces. 

I spent last week at Maryland Deathfest, where I gave Blake the eulogy that I could not give at his servicewhere I gave Blake the eulogy that I could not give at his service, where I cried every day, but was never more than an arm's length from love. Where we shared stories and laughed at our beloved Rascal, and when I drunkenly confessed dark fears to friends during Hemorrhage, and where I sobbed through the entire Weekend Nachos set because I could just *hear* Blake in my head. 

"Yeah, Weekend Nachos is cool but NONE of these kids cared until they did these reunion show...posers." 

I turned to a good friend and tapped his shoulder. 

"what?"

My lip trembled and tears spilled down my cheeks. 

"Oh god." He pulled me into a bear hug, his chest against my back, so we could both still watch, after I told him I could hear Blake's voice in my head. And honestly, it had been a while since I'd heard his raspy voice, as if whispered in my ear. But I heard him all weekend. It was a nice visit. 

I rode the love and affection of my metal family through to the next adventure: a business retreat in Florida. 

Granted, it sounds relaxing, and it was not. It was a LOT of networking, small talk, presentations. I went from pure, un-cut, honest love to...well, high school, in a way.

As the event dragged on, small groups popped up, loud, fun social-media savvy Gen Z business owners lumped together, shooting buckets of content to use for months to come, while the Gen Xers grouped together based on similar regions. Almost everyone had kids. Almost everyone had real, honest to god sales and customers, even if they were not turning a profit. 

And then there was me, still in Heavy Metal Parking Lot mode, pretending to be the social butterfly that I can be when I feel truly comfortable and at home. (It happens two weeks a year, and I need to admit that to myself and move on.) I was myself, I was upfront, unapologetic, loud, silly. It, uh, did NOT go over well. 

In my defense, when I wore the suits, had blonde hair, covered all my tattoos, and hung back to be sure I only said all the 'right' things, people didn't take me seriously then either. So fuck it. I may as well be comfortable, right? 

The walls started to crack during the retreat, during the multiple points when I'd turn around and there were small groups, shoulder to shoulder. There was simply no way in. I walked by myself. I stood by myself. I ate by myself, reading a book on my phone, only moving when someone couldn't get a seat at anyone else's table. It was a bit of culture shock, going from bear hugs and "here's a beer" and "I love you so much" to "Oh, all the seats are taken, mind if I sit here?" It sounds like I'm describing some high school nonsense...and maybe I am; it happened multiple times over multiple days.  

After the retreat, I spent the day driving around with a good friend, catching up, talking shit, driving all over the place. And for that day, I am grateful; I wasn't ready for the crash. Walking into my empty house, stale air from no AC, no dog yet, no one waiting to greet me with a hug or to ask me how it went, no one to hear me fire off new ideas at 100 mph. Nothing. Just a bunch of things, arranged exactly how I left them, down to the clean dishes I ran before I left.

The tug of the ocean strengthened, fully pulling me under today.

It should've been a great day. 

Not one, but THREE major highways in the DMV cooperated so I could drive fast, windows down, belting out Man's Gin songs, on my way to meet a friend for a quick coffee before they zipped off to Baltimore for the week. That alone makes for a good day.

I spotted a police car and a large crowd, which in and of itself isn't notable. Until I saw another body. 

All awkward angles, he looked like he got down on his knees and was shoved forward. His neck was twisted, face between the ground and the base of a building. His arms bent, one behind him, as if he rested it on his lower back, the other like the cartoon drawing of a fallen body. His butt was in the air like a small child playing hide and seek, while his legs awkwardly bent behind him.

A group was gathered around him. A police officer shook him, gently at first, then more forcefully. People shouted, "Sir? Are you OK? Sir?" He didn't move. In my (limited) experience, folks will generally stir if there's cops coming, respond in some way when shaken. This man did not. I was stopped at a light...by the time it turned, the man still had not moved. 

And I wonder again, if I am marked the way I am marked by the birds...

 ---

We are all witnesses to each others' pain and suffering, loss and hope, joy and tragedy. 

As I walked to meet my friend, I thought "we're all constantly pummeled by the waves of death. It's a privilege to have made it this long in life without witnessing many, many deaths." 

There are many places in the world where death and grief are a daily reality, rather than something shunt away, to be done behind closed doors. There are many, many places where death pours from the sky as bombs, or grows from the ground in lieu of food, or comes from the hand of someone once considered a neighbor. 

So in a way, my predicament seems tame.  

And yet, there are periods in my life- and presumably everyone else's- where I feel surrounded by death. There was a two-year period in my teen years where I lost my father, grandma, both grandfathers, and a great-aunt. After Blake passed, another friend lost a partner of 10 years, another lost his father, so many others have lost grandparents, pets, parents. A wave of grief, sweeping us off our feet. 

Some waves are like a tsunami, a constant stream of death and despair and destruction, that comes and comes and comes, seemingly endless. Images of babies and families and women and children and men and dreams and hopes and futures and potential and pain and fear and hate and love in mass graves in Gaza, spilling into surrounding countries, in Sudan, in the Congo, in Ukraine. There are mass shootings, murders, adding to the sea of ruthless, unending suffering. 

To witness the suffering is unavoidable, a tsunami turned to lingering fog, until we no longer notice the dampness. We could, of course, simply stop. But that is a too-easy, too-simplistic, too child-like answer to complex geo-political problems that doesn't address decades of context...but have we considered trying? 

A tsunami leaves visible damage, scars, gaping wounds. No one walks up to the site of a tsunami hours or even years later without seeing how the waves have shaped and re-shaped a landscape. Bent trees, flattened buildings, rubble that never gets completely cleared, an entirely different shoreline. 

Other waves are riptides- the unexpected losses, suicides, accidents. They drag us under, flailing, suffocating. Communities, families upended. A gnawing void in every place shared, from the bed to the car to the grocery store, to every place pinned "One day" creates a world of "what ifs" and "if onlys" and "remember when we," a tortuous, never-ending refrain. A one sided call-and-response. 

A riptide seizes, but doesn't last. Suddenly, everything is placid and normal. When someone walks past the site of a riptide minutes or months or years later, one could assume the serenity is a given, that nothing bad could happen on calm shores, while sun gently kisses its surface. There may be a plaque or a warning sign or a yellowed notice in a newspaper, pinned to a forgotten corkboard near the parking lot, but the riptide is really only memorable to those who experienced its sudden power, the immediate fear and frailty following. 

The refrain "what could I have done differently?" the thought that hangs, a limp albatross around the neck, when the truth is: probably, most likely, the biggest possibility, is nothing. There is so little we can control, even when doing everything "right." 

Then there are the gentle, constant laps...the death of a beloved, aged or infirm relative, the soft passing of an elderly pet. Their absence isn't any smaller, but there's some soft comfort in feeling like that person or pet lived a good, long life and were off to the New Great Adventure, free from the confines of a body, with all their injuries and ailments and quirks, and hopefully reunited with their loved ones and ancestors. 

These constant laps shape the shoreline, bringing new shells, seaweed, maybe driftwood, or even a tooth or bone or fossil. Their gentle pulse erases footsteps, brings calm and comfort and a sense of predictability. Surely, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, these soft waves will cleanse the shore, imperceptibly to all except those who pause and take notice and offer gratitude. 

The waves of death roll on. 

I am but a humble witness.