UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

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2001-08-26 - 8:14 a.m.

I HATE THIS

Our synagogue buried another child this week. We've buried five in four years (but who's counting?) None have died of lingering diseases or violence. They've just died. Suddenly. Randomly. Three by fire, one by sudden heart stoppage on the basketball court, and the latest by a quick case of encephalitis. She had a slight headache in the morning and was dead by evening. It hurts. For many, particularly our children, it shakes faith.

Each time, we drag out the obligatory grief counselors. I'm not sure when they became part of the ritual of death. I'm not even sure what they add to the experience that is valuable. We try to engage in the forced, earnest group discussion of loss that may help some but those same discussion leave others, such as my children, feeling out-of-step in their reactions: Kat because she is very private and Day-Hay because she is a doer, not a talker.

I've grown to hate the informal neighborhood rituals that surround such deaths as well. The cassaroles and the charity funds are fine but I hate the distancing that rapidly sounds like blaming. "I wouldn't have sent my kid to volleyball practice with a headache." As if that's true. As if it would have made any difference in the long run. As if constant vigilance is possible---or even any sort of guarantee. Not me. Not my kid. Not possible.

You can't trust people's initial reactions either. The congregation buzzes with who is taking it badly and who is taking it well. The congregation is often wrong. My actress, my openly passionate Kat is less deeply shaken than my solemn doer, the quietly passionate Day-Hay. Kat is sad and shaken but she seems to believe in God and good reasons whether she can fathom those reasons or not. Day-Hay is less visibly sad and shaken but she is still reeling from the deaths and the near-death of her best friend from complications of E.Coli infection last summer. She doesn't believe in God---and she hates him. (She seems sure that if God exists, God is male.) She doesn't believe in reasons or the power of vigilance. She just worries and I worry about her.

So, we stumble around again and slowly return to the small talk that itself comes round to bite us. Who is your teacher---and who would Brittany have had?

God, I hate this part of life.

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