Life Itself

Tonight I watched “Life Itself”, a movie about the Life, career, health, decline, and ultimately, death of Roger Ebert. 

It’s hard to say that I liked the movie because many parts of it were extremely difficult to watch.  Pulling the viewers in to closely witness the suctioning of his tracheotomy tube was entirely unnecessary.  It also gave me a terrifying glimpse into our potential alternate parallel.     

At the end of the movie, when Ebert’s wife described the moment of his death, with her at his bedside, I did everything I could to suppress my tears.  If watching alone, within the protective walls of my house, I would have weeped like a baby.  And even then, alone, I would have felt embarrassed by my sobs.  Why do I associate tears with fragility and shame?  Especially since I’ve made a career of it over the last couple years?  Self sabotage.     

Death is so abstract.  I believe I understand it intellectually.  I have witnessed and grieved the deaths of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and even peers.  Lately, I’ve seen death at its cruelest - death in children.  Each passing cuts deeply and I still feel the sting of the wounds.  However death remains unfathomable.  As the saying goes, “in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes”.  Well most of us understand neither.  The IRS and the grim reaper share the same cloak of mystery.  Isn't it cruel that our only certainties are the most incomprehensible?

In the last moments of Ebert’s life, his wife turned on the music, held his hand, and finally felt at peace as the doctor announced the time of death.  Although completely self destructive, I couldn’t help but see myself in that position.  In truth, I’ve never envisioned myself in this scenario before.  I mean, really see myself at her deathbed.  Why the hell would I do that?  It’s morbid and damaging.  But while listening to her story, I went there.  What would I do at Niko’s bedside?  Would I hold her?  Or would she be bound by wires?  Would I keep her in my arms, unwilling to let anyone else hold her?  Would that be selfish?  Would I play music?  And what the fuck would I play?  Wheels on the fucking bus?  Would I allow Mila in the room?  These awful thoughts were invading my mind.  That is why I lost it.  That is why I quietly cried.  I felt selfish for making that moment of the movie about me.    

I should not watch depressing movies anymore.  But strangely this movie brought a little wave of calm to me.  It brought me one tiny step closer to understanding death.  I’m not sure if I really want to understand it.  Maybe I should just let it hit me.  Maybe I'm wrong…