death, as a wedding

Poetry, Christine Salek

When an obituary says that so-and-so died

surrounded by their family and friends, or,

in the case of Andrea Gibson, who passed away

17 hours ago, “surrounded by their wife, Meg, four

ex-girlfriends, their mother and father, dozens of

friends, and their three beloved dogs,” I get to

thinking about planning a death. Not my own, but

maybe my own. Sometimes death is planned,

whether meticulously or less so. Other times we

all know it’s going to happen, and we call the

rest of the family. When my grandpa was taken to

the hospital for the last time, my mom was on her

way back home across the country after spending

a week with him. She turned around when she got

the call that it was almost time. Unplanned, yet by

the end, everyone was there. Actually, my grandpa

was late to my wedding, the most meticulously

planned event I will ever be a part of, but what were

we going to do, start without him? It took place

outside on a ninety-degree day, and he arrived in a

heavy suit with his rollator. The wedding started late

because we understood then, seeing him limp up the

walkway of the event space, that he shouldn’t be in

the heat any longer than necessary. All of my guests

had to be there for the ceremony to take place, and

when his death took place four years later, his middle

daughter, of course, had to be there. When I think of

Andrea’s death, or my grandfather’s, I consider how

courageous it is to face death with the ones you love.

Being ill around others is scary, too, allowing them to

witness you at your most vulnerable, every moment

allowing someone else to see your pain. The moment

your life is no longer your own, though, isn’t your

death, but the moment your loved ones realize this is

it, that your illness is ending soon, that you won’t be

well again, that they decide who gets to be in the room

for your final breaths. Sometimes those people even pull

the plug. And it’s the first line of the obituary that

summarizes this transitional moment—surrounded by

family, by friends, by pets, by hospice nurses—that

communicates what they think really mattered to you,

what summed up your life. To be so exposed by the

author of your obituary is to be loved. That someone

can say this person died in a crowded room, this person

literally lost their life in front of all these people, here, let

me name them, let me tell you about them. And let me

be the one to guide you through their last moment,

because you loved them, too.

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Christine Salek is a former high school water polo player living in Wisconsin. Once a WNBA reporter, they’re now content with their library science degree and the lifestyle that entails. Learn more about them at christinesalek.com.