Facing death

It seems like an opportune time to talk about death. With the Pope passing and Terri Schiavo finally resting in peace, it’s almost fitting. The past few weeks have been more about death than anything else. This is probably one of those rare times that the world is united by something greater than treaties and conferences. The world stands united in mourning.

Considering the amount of access that media has to these recent deaths, it isn’t surprising every conversation for the past couple of weeks have at least touched on Schiavo and the Pope or, more importantly, death. It is surprising, however, that these two stories have been treated as something more than the daily news. People, I notice, feel a genuine sadness when it comes to discussing Terri Schiavo and even more so, Pope John Paul II.

People mourn for the lives of these two brave people because they realize the value of a life and a life well lived. I will mourn for them because they have lost a life. I will not however, be as sad for John Paul II as I am for Terri Schiavo. The pope has spent 85 years on this world doing great things and touching millions of people. He has lived a good life and we should be happy for him. Terri Schiavo was nowhere near 85, hasn’t done all she wanted to accomplish in her life and hasn’t been able to experience all the wonder this world had to offer her for over a decade. That isn’t the way to die.

Mourning is universal because life and death are universal. I, for one, have recently been given a crash course – and I mean crash course literally – on the value of a life and the swift arm of death.

Last Thursday, March 31, my friends and I were on our way back from an overnight getaway out of town when death suddenly stared directly at my face. There were nine of us in the van, including the driver, on our trip back home. Among the eight passengers, five were asleep. I was in the middle seat looking out the window. The van took a right turn in front of SM North Edsa. As the van was turning, a speeding bus zoomed from the outer lane and crashed into the rear side of our van, shattering windows and leaving a beanbag-sized dent on the side of the van. I saw it coming. I froze in my seat as I watched that bus seemingly coming for me. At that moment, I was facing death. We all were. All it would take was a little more speed and a little more time. If that bus was going any faster and we arrived at that spot a few milliseconds later, the bus would’ve crashed right into the center of the van and could’ve sent us spinning to our deaths. Thankfully, we survived although one of my friends needed stitches on his right arm.

My friend told me as we exited the mangled vehicle that he thought that he was going to die. To be honest, I’m a little surprised that we got up from that as cleanly as we did. We all felt death staring at us through those headlights. For the first time in 19 years, I felt that my life was out of my hands. I was a sitting duck with no way out.

If there is anything I picked up from this incident aside from a few nicks from shards of broken glass, it’s that a life is something to cherish because you will never know when it will end. Mine could’ve ended that day and I haven’t even begun to live a full life. Death will come; it’s a fact of existence. Whether you’ve been incapacitated for 15 years, being fed through a tube and still breathing, 85, divine, influential but can no longer speak or 19, young, careless and hung over, you will never really know for sure until the time comes, ready or not.

* * *

For comments, please e-mail me at emailcarlramirez@yahoo.com.