Some Thoughts About Death and Dying.

I was sitting at my desk, eating pineapple out of a plastic container when I received an email telling me that my friend John had died in an accident.

We can never predict what thoughts will pierce our consciousness after being blindsided with such traumatic news, and I remember calmly thinking, "From now until the end of my life, pineapple will remind me of John dying."

I clutched the sticky fork and stared at my computer screen. The plastic handle shook in my hand so I put it down. Someone said something to me about a work thing. I don't remember what.

More thoughts invaded: That's crazy, he just posted to Facebook a couple of days ago. Oh, my god. His wife must be devastated. Should I call someone? Should I call my dad since he used to coach John? What should I do? I should do something.

I did nothing.

I sat and lectured myself as different emotions penetrated my consciousness. They came strongly, yet were muted by a foggy curtain of shock and then guilt.

Why hadn't I called him at least once in the past ten years? For God sakes, I was his best man. I could have easily put forth a little more effort than "liking" his photos of martinis and Halloween costumes on Facebook.

I felt so weak.

He had been such a positive spirit in my life. In high school, we discovered the Beatles together, ten years after their breakup. We plastered the locker we shared with stringy-haired photos from their later years, and John and I traveled to Seattle to watch a tribute show entitled "Beatlemania."

We hadn't yet grasped life's fragility. Death was for pets and old people and soldiers in Vietnam on the six o'clock news.

But when John Lennon died that Fall, together we experienced the cold injustice of a life cut short. It was supposed to be just, logical; it had been for our entire lives.

And now, here I was, sitting at work, cradling my head in my hands and feeling the same anger I'd felt thirty years ago.

There's something rich and enduring about relationships which began in childhood, with that small cabal of folks whose brains were percolating and hard wiring themselves right next to you on that bumpy school bus ride. Maybe no one else could relate to you, but by God, who cared? There's an invisible adhesive stronger than cedar pitch which binds you to these people forever.

Back then, my mom told me that death is part of life, and we must carry on.

I never liked that philosophy. Naturally, as biological organisms, we're built to survive and adapt in the face of physical adversity. The debilitating, raw agony must dissipate in order for us to function.

When someone we love goes away forever, life doesn't go on, at least not like it had before. Everything shifts, whether it's the memory of my mom in my daughters' smiles or the taste of pineapple from here on out.

It's a shift that can ache dearly, yet sometimes force a loud chuckle in a quiet room.

You were a good man and a great friend, John. I hope you know.

Belly up to the bar for a sensory cocktail

Most of us, at least theoretically, would consider ourselves human beings.

And as such, on average, we possess five sensory capabilities—sight, smell, taste, touch and hearing. Notice I said, "on average." If my wife were asked which senses I still have a handle on, she would probably reply, "He doesn't hear the voices of family members and he cannot see marinara-encrusted stove tops. But I suppose at his age, sixty percent is decent."

She might also explain that she maintains an above-average sensory arsenal. My wife can triangulate her lie detector GPS at either of our kids with such surgical precision, they actually confess prior to fibbing.

When we speak of the conventional senses—the "fab five" if you will—I'm going to hone them further down into the two which conjure up my most visceral memory and emotion: sound and smell.

For example, even the faintest whiff of grape Bubble Yum instantly transforms me into an angst-filled fourteen-year-old, sitting with friends at Friday night high school football game. When combined with the sound of "How Deep is Your Love," by the Bee Gees, an emotional cocktail is brewed, stirring up the biting agony of rejected love. We'd only been dating for six days, but she stamped on my heart while chomping on that artificially-flavored dental rot.

Okay, I had to take a short break. I'm okay. She didn't deserve me, anyway.

My mind is filled with these emotive combinations:

The smell of fried chicken and "A Boy Named Sue" by Johnny Cash equates to a chubby five-year-old's favorite Sunday dinner at Grandma's.

The blare of a school bus horn, combined with the odors of diesel exhaust and frozen asphalt snaps me back to February 27, 1982, the day my life nearly ended.

A baby who has awoken from a nap coos and babbles as she lies in her crib, chatting with herself or someone only she can see. As I enter her room and approach her, I'm overcome with that irresistible baby smell. It's not any singular aroma of soap or powder or lotion, but another intoxicating memory which is so wonderful, I yearn to again immerse myself in that tiny loaf of goodness.

Some might say that our senses are merely tools we share with all other forms of life, part of our evolutionary armament. To the contrary, I believe they affirm our humanity, which can use a little primer from time to time.

Whether beautiful or horrific, I revel in these sensory snapshots of life.