Oxymorons

THERE ARE OXYMORONS EVERYWHERE in the quest for clarity on death. Most believe it is either the entryway to paradise and heaven, or it is the entryway to hell; the underworld, a place of darkness where your worst fears come to life. The best expression of this view I have come across is Neil Gaiman's story Other People in his book Fragile Things. Hell vs. Heaven is perhaps the greatest oxymoron, but I recently became aware of those oxymorons that have paraded themselves before my very own eyes.

The first of these was cause for great hilarity. My brother is one of the most sensitive people you will ever meet. He, like me, had anxiety issues when my mother left the room, begged her not to go out and imagined all sorts of grisly fates. And yet when him and I were wrestling and I finally said that no-one was going to remember who won a wrestling match when we were young, he announced easily, "Nope, whoever wins this gets the house when mom, you know,…chucks." Perhaps this nonchalance would worry some; to some mothers it would be the catalyst for a series of thoughts ranging to "I must have done something wrong. He hates me. I am the worst mother in the history of the world", which would have resulted in her either grounding him in order to enforce more quality time, or booking herself into a depression clinic. It is typical of my household that my mom fell about laughing when I told her (I joined her in this).

There is one more oxymoron -or contradiction- I noticed. Throughout my life I have been known for throwing very good parties. This could be based on the fact that every party I have ever had possessed a theme that frowned on dressing down with enough rancor to cause botoxed people to get wrinkles. So when the final day at my old school approached it was natural to throw a party. The only issue was that such a party required a particularly good theme. I racked my brains and finally thought "Farewell…Dress Up…Funeral." What I thought would be most brilliant, was if everyone were to wear what they would wear for my funeral. The only black allowed will be if someone is going all out in a black velvet gown with a lace veil and red lips. Other than that the outfits could range to represent many different aspects of my personality. I have just as many (and maybe more) flaws than the next person but my imagination and dramatic dress sense, allow for some amazing outfits.

I was sure that the Funeral Theme was my best idea yet. It would allow people to be creative and wear something they were comfortable in. It was also broad enough that there would be no-one wearing the same thing, and each outfit would feel like a gift. I plan to be pretty busy in the afterlife (lots of people to catch up with) and so I don't know if I'll be spending enough time at my funeral to fully appreciate all the outfits present. Therefore every one I saw would be like a little gesture,

"Ah, she is dressed in Cher's sparkling red wig that is the same material as the dress. She looks amazing, and will remember me for my love of Cher."
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"Oh, and she is wearing a peasant dress with a corseted front and billowing sleeves. She will remember me for my love of fairytales, and oh the bodice is ripped! She'll never forget how I read Mills&Boons."

This was my thought train. It may have been slightly egotistical, but I really believed that it would give everyone the chance to dress up, and be the perfect way to relive good old memories, and to say farewell.

Often when an old favourite sings from the player my mother will say, "This is on the list for my funeral." There is an actual list of what songs will be played. When I wrote her a poem as a gift, it referred to where I thought she would be when she died; with the crows that always find her, watching over us. This is how easily the words come from our lips in our house. Yet, my party idea was vetoed with vehemence. She understood my reasoning, but no. She was not willing to allow this to happen. From what I understood, it was both because she did not want to conceptualize the death of her little girl, and because she thought it would make it appear to my friends as though I was disappearing completely just because I was leaving the school. I was crushed.

I recovered though, and then I once more saw the oxymoron of death in my household. Acceptance and easiness do not make it alright. When someone dies, the fact that they lived beautifully does not make all the sadness leave. The fact that there were no regrets does not come out with a tissue to wipe your tears. There is no spoon full of sugar big enough to hide the grief when somebody goes. It will not be perfect because you talked about it, you will not hear the news, cry, sleep, then wake and everything is peachy once more. That is not how grief works. It will however, make it easier to handle. I will be able to remember my mother saying "Do not ever doubt, from the moment that I am gone, that I am with you." I will be able to look at the sunset and hear her voice saying "I want to be up there." I will be able to say softly with both tears and a smile (and later, maybe just the smile),

"I see you mom."

Address your fears in regards to death out of choice, not out of necessity. Explain your beliefs so that when you go, your loved ones can know you were not afraid. Death is one of the great forces, and as with any of the others, it is frightening in its might and beautiful in its ability to make us aware. Nature has the power to destroy everything, yet it is during the earthquake-high alert that we look around and see what we do not want to be destroyed, and it is in the aftermath that we look on the green shoot with wonder instead of taking it for granted. These are the lessons the great forces teach us. They tell us to appreciate what we have and make memories so beautiful now, that when somebody does go, they do not disappear from our hearts and our minds.

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DAIRY:
July 23 - August 3, 2009
6th Annual Kids' Lit Quiz. World Finals in South Africa.
31st July, 2009 (submissions closing date)
Oxford University Press, The Oxford Award for - School Essay Competition for learners in Grades 11 and 12 whose home language is not english.

Never Too Young -  
Bilaal Rajan's Blog: My Journey to South Africa

Bilaal has been raising money and awareness to help the less fortunate since the ripe of age of four when he decided to sell tangerines door-to-door and raised almost R2 500 for victims of an earthquake in India. The 12-year-old founder of the NGO "Hands for Help" who is also a Unicef Canada ambassador said he wanted to tell young people that all it takes to make a difference is action.