On Death And Memories
Originally written Fall of 2013 and published via a Facebook event, this is my first essay written neither for grade or pay.
Today marks a ten-year milestone of an important event in my life’s journey. Elizabethtown Area School District held fast to the sacred ideals of alphabetization, so Betz, Bailey, and Barlow spent a whole lot of time together. Sharing homerooms, gym classes, and locker bays with Evan and Shane was something I could count on every year. The spaces they occupied were always filled with the physical sensation of the characteristics they exuded: mischievous smiles, sharp wit, and a genuine appreciation of the people around them. These qualities, coupled with their constant proximity, lead to my unlikely friendship with them extending beyond the school walls.
At the time of the crash that ended their lives, I wasn’t as close to them as I had been in the past. The natural forces of growing up had spun us in different directions, but that didn’t deaden the shock of the news that drifted through the halls the next morning like a cloud of poison. This wasn’t my first experience with the death of a classmate and friend; that had come the previous spring. Maybe it was the fact that these were guys my year instead of a girl a year older, or maybe it was just by virtue of a few more years knowing them, but this one resonated much more deeply.
They let us out of school early that day. The group I had been spending most of my time with went to a friend’s house, where we watched a movie to try to laugh a little. There was an emptiness there, caused by the sense of loss and our immediate, painful realization of our own mortality. We would learn later that there was a bit of irresponsibility leading to the accident, but nothing on a level we hadn’t all been guilty of at one point already. As our host’s mother brought out some drinks and snacks, I could see in her eyes an understanding of the suffocating weight occupying our thoughts, as she too was faced with the unpleasant possibility of losing one of her own three sons.
That afternoon, we drove to the crash site. Though the vehicle had been removed, and items of tribute were appearing around a power line pole at the crest of the hill, evidence of the mayhem from the evening before was everywhere. I’m not entirely sure why, but with a feeling of significance in the moment, I picked up a small shard of headlight plastic from the edge of the road and put it in my pocket.
Over the years that followed, my experiences with the notion of death grew. My grandfather succumbed to a decade of health problems and I understood what a lifetime’s body of work is worth. In college, I presented a project my partner didn’t make it through, though we were both on the road at the same time during that storm. Another childhood friend, one of the most kind-hearted souls I have ever known, drowned during a college cross-cultural mission trip, and I saw in its fullness how life’s amazing potential can be extinguished in an instant. Two more died from cancer before finishing college: one quickly, the other after a long battle. When a long-term ex-girlfriend lost her fiery, vibrant mother to breast cancer, I felt the pain of the untimely loss of family through the eyes of another. And when a couple of friends lost their infant daughter, I saw it all again from a new perspective.
My most recent experience with this universal inevitability came just two months ago. A man whom I had come to see as something of a mentor lost his own battle with cancer. A few weeks later, I was at my desk working on the newsletter for the nonprofit he chaired. His widow was talking with a staff member and friend at the table behind me, and though I tried to stay focused on my work, it was impossible not to listen in. The conversation centered around what came next: what to keep of his things, what to do with their home, and how she would spend her time going forward. The feeling I got listening to the discussion was not unlike the feeling after a boisterous farewell party is coming to close. The sound of the vacuum running, empty bottles and trash dropping into bags, and voices saying goodbye just outside the front door, signify that the evening’s jubilation was but a fleeting moment, destined to fade from memory. As I pondered this, his name disappeared from the masthead of the newsletter forever, falling letter by letter into the backspace bar piloted by my little finger. Never before had eleven keystrokes felt this personal.
My experiences with death greatly influence the way I view life and how I live it. These individual stories inevitably contribute to my narrative of thought during the occasional sleepless nights caused by unfortunate spells of depression. It’s when I do my best thinking. It’s difficult though to organize these thoughts around a central purpose when a person is as prone to over-analyzing as I am. For many people, a rock-solid faith in the love and providence of God gives them all the structure they need to frame their lives. For others, it’s the human basic of creating and providing for a family, and the beautiful simplicity of it all. For others still, life can be evaluated through the lens of personal fulfillment, whether through material achievement or self-actualization. For me, these pursuits all break down at some point. I hope I figure it out eventually.
Recently, an acquaintance mused on what Evan and Shane would be doing if they were alive today, and what kind of men they would be. My best guess? Shane would be with a small graphic design company, still plying more personal artwork on the side, and recently engaged. Evan would be competing in the upper tiers of minor league hockey, wife and two kids in tow wherever he ended up.
Every now and then, I pull out that piece of headlight from the accident. It acts well as a memento mori, and I’m instantly filled with the certainty that my mere existence serves a purpose. The mark they left in the minds of so many made up for the limited physical impact their shortened existence allowed.
While it may be pleasant to ponder where someone would be had they made it further into life, it’s a fruitless exercise. In my memories, Evan and Shane still exist as peers, even though they are in a truer sense forever teenagers. Their lives had an absolute beginning and an end, just like ours all will, bookends on what we do in between. Ten years ago, Evan Betz and Shane Bailey died. But before that, they were here. They were known. They mattered. Maybe that’s all I need.