Thursday, May 23, 1996
Survivors must try to hold on to memories even as they fade
away
Death is a definite end. At least to those of us still living.
Discounting all concepts of an afterlife, death does mean the
absence of life. Although everybody dies eventually, it’s hard for
us to describe death and especially to understand it.
It’s so easy to remove ourselves from death. Sometimes we can
get so caught up in living that we forget to acknowledge life’s
end. And when we do have occasion to think about death, we can’t
quite explain what connection we have to the dead.
Quite simply, dead people are, well, dead. They were once in our
lives but aren’t anymore. We can no longer see them. They’re gone.
And memories only last so long. Understandably, we begin to forget
them. It’s only natural. The pain of losing someone has to
dissipate and lessen; life has to continue. It’s not a process that
can be stopped. No matter how much you may want it to. And I know
because I’ve tried.
Jason died in December, and already there are so many things
about him that I can’t recall. When I think about him, I feel like
I’m fighting a losing battle against forgetting him completely. I’m
away from home and everybody who knew him, and I’m getting so busy
that I don’t even have time to remember.
So when I do think about him, I feel a mixture of panic and
guilt and more than a little sorrow. Certainly I don’t want to
forget Jason. Certainly I wish he had never died. But he did die.
And this sensation of forgetting seems to be growing exponentially
within me.
I met Jason when I was 16 and he was 23. I had just started
taking tae kwon do, and he was one of the instructors. My first
impressions of him are perhaps forever lost. I don’t remember
meeting him at all. It’s almost like he simply appeared in my life
one day: smiling and solidly built with blue eyes, blond hair and a
tendency toward bad haircuts.
As I got to know him better, I started to think that he was a
great guy. (Well, disregarding the bad haircuts, anyway.) And, in
truth, Jason was a great guy. I know a lot of people who think
so.
But somehow I drew him in my mind as larger than life, a
paragon. I saw him as strong and wise and caring and confident and
graceful and happy. More than anything, I wanted to be like him. I
wanted to have that confidence, knowledge and strength for myself.
I wanted to share in his happiness.
I guess it took Jason’s death to convince me that he was only
human. But when he was alive, he was, quite simply, my hero. I
don’t want to sound sentimental, but it’s true; Jason was the last
person I ever truly idolized.
It seemed like half the time Jason was laughing and the other
half he was giving out advice. Certainly he gave me a lot of
advice. Whenever I saw him he was teaching, but he made the time to
talk to me about school and grades and SAT scores and college. I’m
not sure I ever told him I appreciated it; I can’t remember. But I
did appreciate it, and I hope he knew that.
Besides all the advice, he taught me to concentrate. He taught
me that it was possible to put a bad day aside and really focus. He
helped me to go after my goals. He showed me the importance of
details. And, quite amazingly, he usually didn’t get mad if I
accidentally kicked him during class. He made me do things over and
over again until I actually wanted to kick him purposely. But the
desire was fleeting. I knew that most people don’t care if you
learn things the right way. I knew that some of the other
instructors wouldn’t take the time.
And Jason always took the time to make sure things were perfect.
I do have this distinct memory of him making the rest of the class
wait until he was sure I knew how to do a back kick. Believe me, it
took me a long time. Believe me, it meant a lot. I guess that
sometimes it’s the little things that stay with you.
I just wish I remembered more.
If I remembered more about Jason, I wouldn’t have so much
trouble writing this. I wouldn’t be racking my brain for spare
memories. I wouldn’t wonder if everything I’m saying about him
really happened. Maybe I’m just filling in holes. Maybe I’m just
trying to make him sound good on paper.
Maybe the whole issue of death just confuses me. How do you
reconcile the concept of death with the picture you have of someone
as so very much alive? How are you supposed to feel when holes crop
up in all your memories of this someone who has died? And what do
you do to get rid of the holes?
One thing’s for sure, memories are definitely important. They
are worth far more than any tangible thing. But how do you hold on
to them? How do you remember things when the only other person who
would recall them is dead?
I only wish I knew. Right now I’m just trying to remember
everything I can about Jason, and then I’m writing it down. It’s
not a perfect system, but it’s a start. And there’s so much I don’t
want to forget.
It’s just that these holes in my memories of him seem to get
larger every time I try to retrieve them. It doesn’t seem fair that
there’s so much I can’t remember.
But I guess there’s not much in death that’s fair to those still
living. And there’s so much in death that I’ll never
understand.
Kotadia is a first-year biology student. Her column appears on
alternate Fridays.
If I remembered more about Jason, I wouldn’t have so much
trouble writing this. I wouldn’t be racking my brain for spare
memories.