Sometimes it is more important to note the absences—what is missing—than to focus on what one
thinks might be visibly present.
Decades ago, within a few short months, I stopped working as an investigator and stopped husbanding (after twenty years and nine years of service, respectfully). That was the year I let my hair down for the first time in my life—literally as well as figuratively.
Before retiring, my latter years as a military investigator were spent supervising (an essential element of which was inspecting case files). One way to review closed criminal cases is to look for what first-echelon investigators and supervisors overlooked.
Example criminal case: Accident or suicide. After ingesting a relatively large quantity of intoxicants (legal and illegal) a soldier apparently disrobed, placed his folded clothes on the hallway floor outside his hotel room, opened the hallway window, and stepped out (or fell, or jumped, or was pushed). This scene (in Amsterdam, Holland, The Netherlands) was described, sketched, and photographed in detail. Witnesses were interviewed thoroughly. Autopsy, check. Toxicology, check.
The only thing of importance, which I discovered missing: the height of his fall. Nowhere in the file was there a measurement of the distance from the second floor windowsill to the sidewalk. Added confusion: European second floors are US
third floors (the ground floor in Amsterdam is 0). The investigators and their immediate supervisors failed to determine how far the victim/subject fell. [Based on examination of crime scene photographs, I estimated it was over thirty feet—because "ground floor" was, maybe, half a flight of steps above "street level" and ceiling-heights appeared about three meters high—but, guessing is not investigating. I directed the investigators to go back and measure.]
"Why drive three hours to measure that distance, Chief? Seems like a extreme waste of time and money for a closed accidental-fatality case."
I looked sternly at the investigator while I "air typed" with my fingers and said, "Dear Senator Helpmeout, my son's death is listed under 'accidental means' and the file, which I obtained under a FOIA request, says he 'stepped or jumped' out of a 'second-story window.' My son was a good boy and I don't think he would have voluntarily taken all the drugs listed in the toxicology report, but, even if he did, how's it possible for him to have died falling from a second story window? I could jump outta my bedroom window—on the second story of our house—and the worse thing that would happen is I might sprain an ankle."
◫
Most people let their hair down when they first move out of their parent's house. I didn't.
With never a pause, I morphed from overly responsible teenager putting himself through college, to young soldier taking care of an unplanned family, to adult with two cats in the yard and we'll get-together then, son, you know we'll have a good time then.
So...when I found myself retired and single in Prescott, Arizona at the age of 42...I dove head-first into a auto-didactic double major of meditative self-awareness and immersion in nature. During which, I experimented with—among other things (some foolish, others less-so)—automatic writing.
With my eyes closed, in a "light meditative state," I spoke questions aloud and my hand scribbled answers on a large sheet of paper. After much-of-nothing-memorable the following happened:
Me: How old will I be when I die?
Right hand (eyes closed): Fifty three.
Me: What day of the year will I die?
Right hand (eyes still closed): 31 December.
Even at the time I never paid much heed to it. Over the past decade, I mentioned it, jokingly, a few times when a conversation topic turned to "weird experiences."
Around 2007, when the 21 December 2012 Myan-apocalypse began to hit fringe people's radar, I - again - recalled my own faux-ominous date o' death based on nothing but my own foolishness. One which was supposed to be 31 Dec 2012.
That was a week ago, and all of our heads, including my own, are still snapping.
I'm fine.
How you doin?
◫
What I am attempting to point out with this essay, is that we all rarely pay attention to the obvious, staring-us-in-the-face, always present thing-at-the-back-of-our-conciousness—which we are in the habit of
not bringing forward to our mind's worktable very often.
We would-maybe-kinda like to know how much longer we have and when we are going to die.
We tell ourselves,
it will happen sometime in the future. And not just the future. The distant future. Ten years from now. At least. We assume that it will happen when we are old. And we never think we are old. Even when we know we are old, we tell ourselves,
we are still not old enough to die of old age.
We always assume: 'tomorrow will be another day'.
We rarely consider that
tomorrow today could be the last day. And we also don't focus on the idea that when our last day arrives—just like yesterday arrived—it will almost always be unknown to us as such. We never consider that it will be the last day. Period. It will be the end of the entire world
from our perspective. Full stop. If you decide to "pause the game," there is no way to un-pause it.
Even as we are falling thirty-five feet to our seconds-away demise,
sure hope I don't sprain my ankle jumping out this second-floor window is our la...
(Original essay written 5 Jan 2013. Updated/edited March 2020.)
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