On Helplessness

We all want to do something. Steph sent me a text asking if there’s anything that can happen on Saturday, as Mike is coming in from out of town for the funeral, and it might be good to have a Job for him.

A job for him, and me, and Tom, and Marit, and Steph’s parents, and sister, and other friends, and so on.

If you need a ride to the airport, I can probably help out. Simple problem, simple solution. There isn’t any solution to death, though. It’s not so much that we’re being busy to avoid thinking about it, or to avoid grieving (though that might be the case). We’re busy being busy because we want to help. We want to be part of the solution.

Palliate. As in palliative care.

The problem is death. Someone just left, and we can’t do anything about it. He wasn’t taken from us in the sense that someone killed him. You can be angry at the universe, or angry at a disease, but, never having experienced this, I expect it’s a whole lot different from being angry at the distracted driver, the negligent worker, the mugger, the killer. There’s not a person to target in this case. Just death.

Simple problem. The solution is that the rest of us keep living.

Complicated.