Obituaries never begin well. They end well, full of family and survivors, but they begin with death, like a Shakespearean tragedy told from Act V to Act I. Obituaries being what they are, talk of death is necessary, much as a knife or poison is necessary to a good murder mystery. I do not mind that, although I do not care for it either.
Instead, I believe obituaries have no idea how to deal with life. Thank you, but the only people I have known whose lives could be described with a simple listing of schools attended and jobs held are those with no life at all. I suppose obituaries have created their own rules over the years, which necessitate including certain information, but in the end they devolve into lists of accomplishments that sneer at those who did not build bridges, write the great American novel, or win the Nobel Prize in economics.
And yet, these accomplishments are often the least defining traits of our humanity. Actions we perform only have effects insofar as other people and other things are affected by them. Building a bridge would mean nothing if no one crossed it and no one saw it. Writing the great American novel would mean nothing if no one read it. Winning the Nobel Prize would mean nothing if the research was useless. In fact, even those who did all these things are not remembered so much for them but for the influence they had on starting up new styles, movements or ways of thinking that persisted long after the death of their originator.
I do apologize, dear reader, for the morbidity of my thoughts. But I had some personal experience with this problem over the break. No sooner had I taken my last final, turned in my last paper, packed my bags and piled into the car to return home when my cell phone rang: My aunt, Diana Harvey, had died. So I got home, repacked my bags and flew to Reno to cry, comfort, remember, bury, and hear the many tales that came from my aunt’s life. While I learned some obituary-styled information, these tales were what supplied me with the truth of my aunt’s life.
The obituaries said that my aunt started the Down Syndrome Network of Northern Nevada, but that is not who my aunt was. She is the woman who, when she learned her unborn daughter had Down syndrome, did not react with fear or worry, but only said “What do I need to do?”
The obituaries said that my aunt graduated from the University of Oregon in 1985, but that is not who my aunt was. My aunt is the woman who gave her nephew – me – a Christmas gift of UO memorabilia, if for no other reason than because we were two Ducks in a family full of Beavers.
The obituaries said that my aunt lived and grown up and married and had kids, but it says it like a politician would. Yes, my aunt did all those things, but she did so much more that simply saying where she lived and who she married feels as if vital information has been left out. If I asked my mom what growing up beside my aunt was like, the answer would involve none of this “growing up” pithiness, but instead a series of stories: favorite holidays, dances, mutual friends, teases sent toward their younger brother, learning how to drive, camping trips, and the feelings that came when first one, then the other, moved off to college.
That is the problem with obituaries: They remember people in ways no one else will remember them.
In 10 years, it will not matter who started the Down Syndrome Network of Northern Nevada. The person who did that will just be a name written in a book or kept on a Web site for the knowledge of curious passers-by, while everyone busies themselves with doing the work they do to keep the network running.
What will matter is the strength and courage my aunt inspired, and the stories she left behind.
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