Sunday, September 2, 2012

Be Careful what You Ask For

The steep part was over.   I let go of the cable, planting my feet on a relatively level section of trail, and looked down at the beach two hundred feet below us.  Deep but quiet breaths so Andy wouldn't realize how old and out of shape I was.  He soon caught up with me, and I took a moment to look left and right, admiring the miles of blue breaking waves, punctuated by wild prehistoric looking rocks.

And not a living thing in sight. Well, not exactly, I could still see the cove where we came across the vultures busily devouring the carcass of an infant elephant seal.


     "But why do they die? It just doesn't make sense."
     "Sure it does, Andy. The young are more susceptible to 
      disease, accidents, random predators. You know, 
      survival of the fittest and all that Darwinian stuff."
     "What?  No, I was talking about Christian."

     "Oh, Christian."

We had spent an unusually mild north coast afternoon at a new found beach access, lounging, reading and fooling around with our digital cameras. And I had done my best not to think about the death of Christian, a student in Andy's film class and the last psychology I had taught before retiring.

     "No idea, Andy."
     "But it's stupid, so pointlessly destructive and incredibly    
      cruel to others--the people like us who cared so much  
      about him."

I was grateful for the several hours of easy companionship with my friend but not ready to pursue this subject.

      "I agree. It baffles the mind. Perhaps only someone else  
       severely depressed could begin to understand the  
       why's of it all." 

Even while saying this, I knew my simplistic, dismissive  answer was a crock of shit.  After my father died, I had spent weeks wallowing in bed going out only to acquire more booze. But on the Sunday of my second week of hiding out from the world, I glanced beyond the shelter of my covers.   My wife stood very tall before me and spoke words that were both loud and direct, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

    "All right, that's it. No, I can't imagine what it's like to lose   
     a parent, never been there. But two weeks of feeling 
     sorry for yourself is enough, John. Get showered, 
     dressed and be ready to eat dinner with the kids in half 
     an hour. And plan on going to work tomorrow."

Though my wife is loving and usually quite tolerant, the forceful intervention she leveled at me that day was her greatest gift. I'll admit that I was certifiably depressed during those weeks, but at no time did I actively entertain the option of suicide. Unless maybe I was trying to do it gradually in a "Leaving Las Vegas" style--which is actually more common. Still, it bothered me that I had taught psychology for thirty some years, but when it came understanding the mindset necessary to take one's own life, I was as clueless as the young teacher behind me. 

I once saw a bumper sticker claiming that "Old Guys Rule," but I have long since realized that they don't--and never will--have all the answers. Not that I was going to admit this to someone not yet out of his 20's.

     "Tomorrow is Christian's memorial.  Andy, are you sure 
      you can drive back and get everything arranged in 
      time?"
     "Nothing I can't handle," he said, stopping to put  
      away his video camera. 

Ah, the confidence and energy of youth, I thought. The trail was taking us up through pungent sage, sweet smelling mint and the occasional, but easily avoided, incursion of poison oak.

     "Well, let me know if you need any help."
     "Sure."

Then the path leveled out, and we ducked out from under the last of the shady oaks. The afternoon was warm but comfortable like the friendship that had gradually developed between Andy and me. Beyond the next stretch of chaparral, sun sparkled off my car's windshield. Death and sorrow seemed far away.

(Names changed obviously and unfinished.  Still not ready to share the rest of it)

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