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My wife and I watched the whole season of Six Feet Under. It truly is an amazing series. It is complex in nature, separating itself from other shows. The characters are dynamic and realistic. No one is spared their dignity, not one person is perceived innocent, nor can a character be idolized. They are all flawed human beings, as we are behind the doors, exposed for all to see.This last episode, the final moments of this show has torn me up inside. I wept without remorse. 1 The basic concept from the start of the show with a death (the father) and the beginning of Claire's life is the end of the show. This makes sense. However, it hit me deep. I have no faith. No God. I fear the death of those whom I love and the eventual end to this life. I cannot stop the inevitable: I will grow old, those I know will to, and eventually leave this world. Yet, I want to leave with the dignity bestowed upon those I love.When I think of this episode...it tears me a bit inside. It is for the best. And I know it. My unripened, youthful self is peeling back. The sweetest part of my life has just begun-may I savor it...However, I know it is more than just moving beyond the past. It was a haunting reminder of life that occurred a few months ago. Something I rather not have spoken of but rather to encapsulate into words. Yes, words, to...take the bitter taste away from the gross reality.I went with my wife to visit her grandmother whom had gotten sick at a rapid pace. Her cancer, unknown to her at the time, was eating away-within. We thought, or were told, or wanted to think, to believe, that her placement in the hospital was a step forward toward health. But then there were signs that we all ignored, didn't want to believe, didn't want to verbalize, that life is but a cycle. She stopped eating. Her jokes diminished quicker than her smile. Sleep overcame the insomniac's inhibition. And slowly, she faded. She slept. I was 'there' when cruel reality had come to everyone's lips. When the tears of acceptance came and aided in her journey. She was gone, rather quickly, or slowly if you accept our denial, without a word. Sleep was eternal.Yet, the thought or image that came rushing through my brain into my dilated eyes was of my dog Buddy. I would feel sad for confessing this if I felt any different about death.My first dog, buddy, lived to a young age of 16 years until he stayed outside in the rain too long. He was a typical run-away pup, who was used to the uninhibited days on the farm. The neighbor came to our door that night and had him wrapped up in a blanket, in his arms. He said some spiteful words about our family "not caring", but he was clearly wrong about one part; he just never realized to what extent.And the face, the look, his expression,...all if it...was just so sad. His tongue, much like my wife's grandmother, was hanging with reason to which side it lay in the mouth. The breathing was no different than hers-a rattling, nonrhythmic ventilation of stagnant air. It served no purpose other than what the brain told the lungs to do: keep living. Or, stay alive, without living.The eyes were closed; but when revealed, the fog was settling in like a cold, bitter, windy rainy night. No warmth can be seen behind it- with nothing to expose. His body, no different than her own her, lay abandoned by the prior owner.And all I could think was how we are such fragile shells. All that mattered-her laugh, personality, ideas, morals, visions and love-had left. What remains was two empty shells with only time to wash away the memories that will haunt or compel us.
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