Death Should Be

I watched my dad die. It was grotesque. It was scary. It left me questioning everything I thought I once knew. Death should be almost anything but that. 

I remember receiving the phone call from my “brother” - my dads son from another mother. We were never really close, although I looked up to him for the better part of my formative years. I answered the phone and he said I needed to call my dad because he has stage 4 cancer and only so much time to live. I hadn’t been one of the first to know because my dad and I were in a tiff and we are equally stubborn people… Looking back, our argument feels pretty pointless. I now recognize that we were both suffering. In short, he promised to help drive me home from Texas after graduating with my first Masters degree. I was upset because his timeline wouldn’t allow me to say goodbye to the few friends I made despite all of the horrible things that come with living near the southern border (cough*cough* racism); these were friends I might never see again. Living in Texas was difficult and I wanted to leave on a good note; I wanted to show my dad off; and I wanted the opportunity to celebrate my hard work. Living in United States as a Black man is far more difficult than all of that and pops couldn’t afford to take more than a few days leave from his business. So we fought. We stopped speaking, only for a few weeks because then I got the news. 

I was devastated and in denial. I had already recently gone through the anticipatory grief around my mother’s cancer diagnosis (she’s fine now, FYI). A world without Joel Evertt Mckee was a world that I genuinely could not envision until it became reality. Of course, I am not completely without him. I don’t believe in God or an afterlife. I don’t believe in guardian angels or demons. I DO believe in the transference of energy and that his fire for life lives in and through me. I believe that everybody’s beliefs should be honored. I understand there is comfort in a higher power, for most. For me, I take the phrase “rest in peace” at face value. It’s a state of being unburdened and unbothered… and, I guess, unconscious. For me, it is blissful darkness and the relief of quit as we find the calm within our transformation. 

I remember my “brother” telling me that he didn’t like how I treated my father. After one argument… one of maybe three that I had with my father in the course of my lifetime. This ONE argument shaped this stranger’s perception of me. This stranger, with whom I share a father, decided not to love me because he had to make that phone call. Or, perhaps it was because of jealousy; perhaps it was because he is emotionally unevolved; perhaps it was because he’d been suffering through trauma of which I was unaware. Our trauma is often a parasite that latches tightly onto our grief. Regardless, he stunted my grief journey. He made this moment of indescribable loss that much more unbearable. I was robbed of the opportunity to grieve well, as was he.

My point in telling this piece of my story is that death doesn’t have to be this messy. This is particularly true regarding the death of someone who has a terminal illness. We had the privilege of a timeline that was follied by ego. We had my father’s death wishes and failed to secure legally binding documents that would insure those wishes be honored. We ascribed to differing belief systems which, frankly, should have been inconsequential but still caused tension because none of us seemed to have a clear idea of where my dad stood. There was no room for peace in my father’s passing. The anger and resentments have held strong nearly a decade later. I genuinely don’t know if we could have done a greater disservice to this person I called dad. What I do know is the goodbye song that I wrote for him. I stole a moment alone, dimmed the sticky florescent lights, and I sang to him with the voice he gave me. These are the moments we need to make.

When we’re deep in any kind of grief, we go into overdrive trying to operate under a fog of immense sorrow. Sometimes our grief manifests in outward displays of rage. Sometimes, we just stop smiling. Sometimes we go numb. Sometimes we make art. Occasionally our grief evolves into a superpower. Whatever the outcome, preparing for death is necessary.

Help is necessary. 

I often think “what if I were just able to grieve?” What if I were able to grieve without the conflict, resentment, and anger? What would my life be like today if we all just sat down and witnessed my father’s final rite of passage as the sacred, precious, and priceless moment that it was? 

“What ifs” are pointless. We needed a plan led by my father. His death was rapid with only two weeks to attempt to pull everything together. His life was cluttered with obstacles that robbed him of the time he needed to make a plan that would have given him the opportunity to die well. My “brother” wouldn’t have hated me any less. We wouldn’t have grieved less; however, a plan would have preventing some of the circumstances that evolved into lasting trauma.

Death shouldn’t be accompanied by hate or hostility. Death should be beautiful. Effortless. Peaceful. Kind.

Death should just be…