The Civil War quote I never thought I needed
Cremate me and flush me down a toilet
“Funerals are for the living”, the old saying goes. I always understood what it meant, but never knew where it came from. I was surprised to find it is part of a quote from a Union Colonel from the American Civil War called Roelif Coe Brinkerhoff (that’s a mouthful). The rest of the phrase says something like this: “If we have not done for the dead while they were yet in flesh, it is too late; let the matter pass at the grave. Day by day we should live for those who are to die, and live so that we may die for those who are to live.” In other words, it’s a grim and sort of cynical Civil War version of YOLO, live your best life or any other cringe-inducing inspirational meme you can think of. Yet, I always found it resonated with me. It taught me to instill purpose in any endeavor I undertook. To work hard and be there for the people I care about. To enjoy the journey, even if I don’t know where it leads. Because at the end of it all, you won’t be there for the afterparty.
When it comes to death, I am not a very spiritual or religious person. I’ve always found the concept of my actions being tallied on a cosmic scoreboard that would determine if I would go up or down or reincarnate into a falcon or an anal bead a bit vexing. Why do we need the threat of eternal damnation just to be nice to each other? Shouldn’t it be enough in and of itself?
The concept carries over to funerals as well. I always felt it was like celebrating a high score at the end of a video game. Who cares? The game’s over, dude. It’s not like you can just insert another coin and start again. And don’t even get me started with open casket ceremonies. They make my skin crawl. Just cremate me and flush me down a toilet Captain Fantastic style, please.
Ravioli and Jesus
Death can be sudden, jarring, tragic and heartbreaking. It can be a release from pain or a peaceful farewell. But try and demystify it for a moment. Break it down. Death is the end of life. Life’s end. Its purpose and sole destination. Without death, life would not exist, it would just be an eternity. Too yin-yangey and fatalistic? Let me illustrate with two examples.
My grandmother Alicia was an Italian matriarch who fit the stereotype pretty well. Devout catholic, check. Tough upbringing, check. Cooked the same ravioli for the entire family on Sundays for decades, check check check. I know, I am oversimplifying a person’s life almost to the point of being cruel, but bear with me. Another thing that I feel characterized Alicia is that she always insisted on being kind, loving, and charitable, even after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
Whether she did this out of her God-fearing nature, the kindness of her heart or a narcissistic need to be praised and loved by those around her is moot when it comes to death. What matters is if she found purpose in her actions.
I went to visit her a few hours before she passed. I wasn’t able to talk to her since she was in a chemically induced sleep that spared her from what must have been unimaginable pain. But I’m certain she was at peace with herself.
Dozens of people I had never seen before attended the funeral (our family is quite small, with hardly any extended relatives), and I remember thinking how the fact that so many people remembered her fondly reflected on who she was. Who she meant to be.
River Plate and spite
The only thing I remember from my relationship with my grandfather Horacio is his passion for his football team, River Plate, which he passed on to my father and me. He usually attended the games, but he was never trusted with taking me or my brother or my cousins because he had the habit of losing my father and uncles in the stadium when they were kids.
So no fond memories, no meaningful experiences or lessons. When he passed away a few years after his wife Alicia, I realized he didn’t even really know me (or my brother and sister, for that matter). Sure, I’m definitely to blame for not making an effort to get closer to him as a grown-up. But the fact that I can’t even recall having a single heart-to-heart talk with him paints a pretty clear picture of what kind of person he was. Again, it’s not like there were thirty grandsons and daughters running around the house every Sunday. There were just five of us (with two more living abroad).
He was a harsh, cynical and cold man who (to put it mildly) mistreated those closest to him. And he insisted on sticking to his spiteful nature through his last days. I say this not out of some sense of self-righteousness or revenge. It is simply how I remember him.
He died in a hospital bed after a brief spat with pneumonia. No visits, no goodbyes. When the time came to go through the motions of recognizing and transferring the corpse and making funeral arrangements, the responsibility came down to me. Me, an estranged grandson who hadn’t seen him for years and with whom he had no relationship. It was a strange day, to say the least. I remember thinking spite had left this man alone. Truly, alone. Was that his purpose? Was that the meaning he found in death?
Lessons
Both my grandparents taught me something valuable through their deaths, each in their own way. I often reflect on my actions, my relationships, my work and my passions in the light of how they sum up who I am, should I die today.
Funerals are for the living, but so is death, as confusing as that may sound. We live because we die. Death is hardly ever convenient, but if you’re lucky enough to escape an early visit from the Reaper, try and instill purpose and meaning in the things you do, so that they reflect on who you are or who you want to be. Be mindful that you are alive, and that sooner or later you will not be. Might as well be at peace with yourself when it’s time to punch that ticket.
