And in the End . . .

 

Welp, once again life happened while I was making other plans, and my agenda ended up in the recycle bin. In the three days I planned to stay in Los Angeles with Colin and Leigha, I watched the weather prediction for Joshua Tree with concern, fearing that the 80º+ temperatures there would be too much for the dogs (mostly Chip) and not very comfortable for me. I don’t mind camping in the car during cold weather, but, at a certain point, heat is a deal-breaker. Finally, I decided we would give it a try, with the option to cut and run if it was just too hot. Then the UTI that had been threatening erupted with a vengeance, forcing me to stay closer to, well, bathrooms and giving me the chance to try out my brand new Medicare insurance! Oy.

Anyway, the change in plans gave me more time in LA, which allowed me to indulge in one of my interests: death. Apparently, not everyone thinks about death as much as I do, which is weird, but to each his own. I find mortality one of the most compelling of topics. Not in a macabre way–I’m no ghoul–but as, maybe, the only absolutely universal experience that unites all living things. How humans approach death–with art and cultural traditions, ceremonies and services of all kinds–is fascinating, I think. This common-as-mud part of life is second only to public speaking on the Most Feared Things list. Hamlet identified the fear of death’s unknown as the only reason anyone would choose not to commit suicide:

Of course, he was a pretty depressed, which is understandable given the fact that his beloved father had just been killed by his uncle who then married his mother. But his response to his mother, the queen, who reminds him that death is inevitable, rings true for each person who has ever lost a loved one:

As Colin and I walked through the bizarre Hollywood Forever Cemetery, the “particular” grief that each surviving spouse or child, father, mother, or sibling felt was reflected on the grave markers–some absurdly elaborate, some sweet and simple–mementos, and flowers left by loved ones since 1899. On stone after stone the dead are assured that they will be loved forever, that they have left an important and indelible mark on the world, that they will never be forgotten.

Like Hamlet’s ghost father, whose plaintive cry, “Remember me!” echoes throughout the play, like Hamlet himself, who, in his dying breath urges his friend, Horatio, “Tell my story,” we all just want to be remembered, to believe that our brief time here will not be erased, that our story matters.