Making what "comes before" count

Astrid: Wife, mom, translator, poet, friend.

A friend died during July following 13 years of living with, and battling, ovarian cancer. She was a wife. A mom. A translator. A poet. An essayist. A woman who lived with Lupus. A woman who lived with cancer.

Days before she died, a pile of us got together to share a meal. She was going to join us when she was released from the hospital. We planned to shower her with our consignment store finds - "new clothes" for her new body - thin, with a belly distended from fluid build up. We searched resale shops for pants with drawstring waists and fabrics that wouldn't cling to her skin - she seemed hurt by the weight of fabrics skimming her devastated frame.

We waited for her all night. We drank wine and ate appetizers. We watched a storm throw down lightning, and jumped when the thunder followed so loud it rattled our bones.

We told stories about our friend while we waited. She never joined us. She stayed at the hospital that night. The next day, she went home where she died only days later.

Reconciliation

With each story we told that night, we reconciled that we might not see her again. We shifted our expectations, recognizing that the clothes we bought wouldn't be worn by her, and started sorting them to consider what might fit the pregnant daughter of one of our group.

One of the most important stories shared that night was about our friend's perspective on dying and on death:

"It doesn't matter what comes after. It's everything that comes before."

I find her concept profound. Brilliant. Beautiful. Gracious. Short, to the point. Complete.

In part, I like her concept because it provided a way for me to forgive myself for being absent from the last three years of her hand-to-hand combat - absent largely because I was exhausted from going through and recovering from divorce. It allowed me comfort in the numerous memories I do have of her - group dinners, girls-nights out, a winter weekend at a Wisconsin cabin.

I also have memories of attempts to make her laugh when she was battling cancer. Two of us once showed up at the hospital riding stick ponies. We went for laughs because our hearts were broken. Later that summer, our group rode stick ponies as we left a nice restaurant. Our friend lead the ride.

Her view on dying and death also expands a perspective I have on what follows death.

Variations in 'eternal life'

I believe in eternal life. I think eternal life comes from the return to earth of the chemicals that comprise us - oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, phosphorus - chemicals we begin to borrow from the universe at conception to build bone, blood, muscle. The chemicals we continue to use through the foods we eat to maintain our flesh and to energize our bodies and minds.

I believe in a different type of eternal life, as well, though I don't know that in all instances it is "eternal." It is the afterlife granted each of us by the stories our families and friends tell after we die. It's the stories I share about eating thuringer french fries on my Grandpa's lap, walking in Wausaukee with my Grandma, and getting a draw knife from my Dad on my 12th birthday. It's stories I've heard about my great-grandparents from my folks, aunts and uncles.

In this way, my friend's comment is doubly important to me. For it is in "what comes before" that will be the stories that are told of us, and that will define our eternal lives.

Inevitably, our individual eternal lives in this regard will vary in length. That could be disappointing for some, or a relief, depending. A scant few people worldwide will actually have what I call everlasting life - people about whom we tell stories for millennia and beyond. Jesus. Muhammad. Siddhartha (Buddha). As humans, we've told their stories - and will keep telling their stories - because the stories are inspiring. Philosophical. Thought-provoking, admirable and aspirational.

Some scientists, artists and others are experiencing a good run, including Leonardo da Vinci, Hildegaard von Bingen, Michaelangelo, to name a few. My guess is, closer to our own reference point, folks such as Marie Curie, Gustav Mahler, Nikola Tesla and Frida Kahlo will last for centuries, along with Stephen Biko and the monks who protested the Vietnamese regime. It remains to be seen how far eternal life will go for the likes of Stephan Hawking, Nelson Mandela and others.

Eternal life not only for the good

We also have granted, and will grant, eternal life to a handful who lived on the other side of the coin, for they are the balance to the good, and serve to illustrate what we wish not to become. It's likely Judas Iscariot will travel the halls of eternal life, ever twined to Jesus, whether you buy the story of betrayal or not.

Like it or not, despots including Adolf Hitler, Pol Pot, Idi Amin and others, also will have a version of eternal life.

But what of the likes of the average person? The masses of people who are fortunate enough to have and hold jobs, may still have a home, and have friends and family - but mostly are average? People such as you and me and our families. Our neighbors and coworkers. My friend who believed it's "everything that comes before?" What of those trying to exist day to day in Haiti, Darfur, Afghanistan?

Eternal life of the masses

I think the arc of eternal life will be relatively short for most of us. The bulk of us just don't have the opportunity to enter the statewide, national, or global realm for any combination of factors. That means our impact will be limited, regardless of how locally profound our impact.

Without mass appeal and awareness, the majority of us will have to come to terms with eternal life defined by a handful of select stories told by our brothers, sisters, parents and children - if we happen to have them. Our mark also will appear for a time in the work and volunteer activities to which we committed ourselves.

The real ace in the hole for the average person is in children, and the chance those children will go on to tell stories.

I don't have kids. Consequently, I anticipate my arc to be about 15 years. I'm banking on my niece and two nephews to remember me fondly, and to occasionally tell a story of me and one of our adventures.

While I'm good with the chemical version of eternal life, I want my family and friends to be warmed when they see something that reminds them of me. I want that warmth to prompt a good story telling with those who remain, for whatever time they remember me.

I hope I have the diligence to make "everything that comes before" worth talking about.