Mortality
Back in the day, I shared an office with Tim Mapes, formerly of the Wall Street Journal (here is one of his articles). I say formerly because he passed away eight years ago (his obituary in his hometown paper is here). It seems like a lifetime has passed, but I still remember him very clearly. He was spare with words, but he always had a gentle smile. I posted this note about him - and our shared mortality - on social media, shortly after I learned he had left us. Many more gentle souls have left us since, and I mourn them still. Perhaps one day I will gather enough courage to write about one who is particularly dear. Linda Rotunno, I miss you so.
Mortality
Ten years ago, while I was still running past riot police with my camera and little thought to consequences, death was something that happened to other people. Old people. Unfortunate people. People that occasionally, shockingly, would wind up in front of my lens. But never people with whom I would share meals, jokes, long car rides through Jakarta traffic jams.
While in New York during those carefree years, by chance I met a couple who was very proud of their son, who was living in Jakarta. It was 8 years ago, we were guests at a dinner party, and by chance I shared an office in Jakarta with their beloved son. I remember the love they felt for him was palpable, almost like it was another presence in the room, and they recalled his younger years with great fondness. I remember thinking how lucky he was to be so loved.
I just spoke to one of them again, the mother of Tim Mapes, who died earlier this morning. We shared some tears. I did not know Tim very well; we shared an office and friends, but I was not particularly close to him, although I always appreciated his kindness to me. After he got sick, I admired his gumption, how he continued to work and travel and enjoyed life even with this monumental burden upon him, the burden of fatality. I have not seen him for many years, but I thought of him often, and how difficult it must be to muster the courage to fight his fight.
Today, I felt compelled to call his mother to express my condolences. Because no mother should have to say goodbye to her son.
Now that I have children of my own, and that several people in the Jakarta circle of journalists have passed much too young, and that far too many of my parents' contemporaries have also gone, the weight of mortality bears down ever heavier. Didn't death happen to other people? When did it start happening to our people?
And how do we say goodbye? Chris, who is one of Tim's best friends, flew to London from Islamabad to talk to him one last time. His mother said that it was too late to have that talk. But how would you say goodbye? Would you fight your tears but break down anyway, gripping their hands tight as if that would stop the inevitable? I can't imagine saying goodbye to the people I care about.
But is it better to have them suddenly snatched away by mortality, without that moment of clarity and reprieve where we can express to each other that life amounts to this: love, friendship, peace and kindness? That everything else is noise.
I suppose real life doesn't wait for cinematic moments, that the sudden losses we have experienced in recent years are part and parcel of the indiscretions of mortality. Real life rolls and crashes with random abandon. I may be gone tomorrow. Or maybe it's your turn.
But then again, I do not believe that life is always random. I do not think that I met Tim's parents 8 years ago by chance. I do not think it means nothing in this chaotic universe that I was struck by their presence, by their pride and love.
I think I was meant to make that call earlier, to his mom, and meant to have this cry now, to sit heavy with contemplation. I think I am meant to tell all my family and friends right now that your friendship and kindness brings clarity to this roller coaster we ride. I think I am meant to wipe my tears, pour a cup of coffee, thank my lucky stars for another day on the roller coaster and work my damnedest for many more, with and without you.
11/15/2010
