Indigestion Confession

Last night, as I lay curled in a fetal position on my bathroom rug, I found myself pondering two not unrelated topics. 1. Would I even realize it if I accidentally flushed one of my kidneys? and 2. Death.

As the far too often repeated mantra “I’m going to die…in a bathroom…in Africa, I’m going to die…in a bathroom…in Africa,” mouthed across my lips I reflected how if I did, with the exception of to a handful of people, it would be little more than a short footnote in the lives of people around me. Don’t panic. Don’t think of this as a cry for help. My life is great - exceptional really. Amazing wife, brilliant son, good job, clear purpose. Other than choosing to eat far too much Indian food at a recent birthday party, I don’t have many regrets.

Think about how quickly people become passing anecdotes shared as pages are flipped through a yearbook.
“Her husband books travel for Brittany Spears. Or maybe he drives the bus”
“Isn’t he in jail?”
“She’s married to a guy from The Normals.”
“I should have asked her out.”
“This guy died when he washed down an empanada with a Coke and then his colon exploded - just like that Mikey kid and the Pop Rocks.”

And yet there’s nothing wrong with that. In the country I’m living in now, the “official” mourning period is more than a month. During that time, the immediate family doesn’t work, or go grocery shopping or do anything outside the home. Instead, they pitch a tent in their yard and make coffee for the people who will stop by. The visitors will bring sugar or coffee or tea and sit with the family. The family is expected to wail and look gloomy and, basically, mope. The death, which is understandably hard on the family, becomes more of a social obligation than a process of adjustment and healing. For the next few months, there will be additional ceremonies and more wailing. I know death hurts the living but when society deliberately prolongs that process…?

Yes, I want people to remember me but realize that after I’m gone from here I’m not finished yet. Celebrate that. Tell silly stories about me and things you heard and remember. Share with classmates that math protest I led in junior high or how I would forget my locker combination after every vacation in high school. Mourn if you need to but continue with life.

And at the visitation, be careful with what you eat.

P.S. An apology needs to go to A.M.’s mom (no, not Betty). Half a decade ago I spent the night curled in a fetal position on your basement bathroom floor after a family meal. I thought you really had tried to poison me. Given what happened last night here in Africa, I could have been wrong. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Unless, of course, you somehow managed to follow me here…