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DEATH ANATOMY
I'm not a medic. Here in my notes
I’m not going to explain how death
comes. I’d like to describe what people
feel and how they behave at the sight
of death.
Why such a gloomy topic, you
might ask? I have been an involuntary
witness of the nineteen-year-old girl
committed suicide. Recently.
December 22, 2017.
I live in a high-rise building. The
apartment windows face the roadway.
The first floor is occupied by
hairdressers, pharmacies, small shops,
etc. Negligent residents often throw
garbage out the window and fertilize
the roofs of the outbuildings. Around
11 pm I heard a loud heavy thud and
thought that this time trash flew along
with the bucket.
Curiosity prevailed. I looked out
the window and saw in a scant light of
the lanterns the outlines of a human
figure on the roof of the outbuilding.
The window was opened on the ninth
floor. The looks of passers-by are
directed upwards. Then the noise on
the stairwell. People running from the
windows of the second floor to the
roof. Women's screams. It’s a kind of a
terrible dream, but in reality.
I do not know the motive. I did
not know her. Perhaps we greeted
sometimes, took the elevator. I have no
right to judge her. But I know what her
mother will face.
Thanks to the stranger who took
the living body to the hospital, and
probably did not ask for money.
Thanks to the ambulance that arrived
in only five minutes, and rushed after
the departed car. Thanks to the doctors
who immediately rushed to provide
assistance, and not interested in
residence and any documents. Thanks
to the surgeons who cold-bloodedly
began to do their work, being absolute
certain that all efforts were in vain. No
one cancels human sympathy, but
professional coldness will prevail.
"Wait for meat wagon." The most
unforgiving words. Professionalism,
there's nothing to be done. Forensic
examination. Muted words of the
inspector "tomi ketgan", told someone
into the phone. Compassionate
neighbors' eyes and remarks aside "she
wanted this." The words of the doctor
"all guts broke."
My dear, why did you do this to
yourself? Why did you do this to your
mother? You punished not the one you
wanted! Did you think it would be
beautiful? Did you think it would not
hurt? As in a child's threat: "Here I die,
you all will cry, and I'll get up and ..."
If you'd stay alive. This is a
psychiatric diagnosis FOR ALL LIFE.
If you would seriously got
injured. This is a wheelchair or bed,
physical and moral pains (which of
them is worse) FOR ALL LIFE. True,
there would be a mother next to you
and hold your hand as long as she can.
The mother carried you for nine
months, made a fuss over you, until
your legs became stronger. I witnessed
a child being brought to a woman
(after Caesarean section). She got up
on the bed slowly and heavily, took
her baby gently in her arms and
solemnly said: "Assalomu Alaykum!"
It was so natural, and at the same time
so unusual. It was beautiful! And it
was her third child!
At night someone's drunken
(probably, not only from happiness)
husband and father shouted under the
windows of the maternity home:
"Dzhamila, men seni jaksi kerem!"
Probably, you were long-awaited
desirable child. Your parents had
sleepless nights when you felt bad.
They experienced your little joys and
sorrows.
And now you have given your
parents a ragged wound in their hearts
and an eternal sense of guilt. You
deprived them of any meaning in life.
How can your mother return to the
empty apartment? How can she look
out the window her daughter jumped
from? How can she look at the roof of
the outbuilding, habitually covered
with packages of trash, where your
still warm body lied?
You killed not only yourself. You
killed the hopes of your loved ones.
You cut the genetic chain of a kind,
that unique code that contain the
secrets of female beauty, perhaps
dimples on your cheeks or a lovely
mole, or a unique bend of eyelashes.
You broke a chain of traditions, family
legends and stories passed from mouth
to mouth, a coin box of family recipes.
Fashion for death periodically
comes into fashion. Why? Perhaps this
is due to a lack of imagination, an
undeveloped imagination. The
outstanding writer V.V. Nabokov has
an interesting idea that criminals are
usually people who lack of
imagination; otherwise they would
imagine themselves in handcuffs. I
think that this thesis can be applied to
suicides. It's also a crime, against
yourself, against life, against faith.
Note that people with disabilities,
those who have to fight for each their
day, have a special way of looking at
life. The most optimistic works were
created by those who did not live long.
A. Belyaev, bedridden for six years,
wrote fantastic works full of faith in
the future.
One cannot help but recall the
words of the now forgotten writer N.
Ostrovsky, words that we were asked
to learn by heart fair recently: "The
most precious thing for a person is life.
It is given to him once, and it must be
lived so that it would not severely
painful for aimlessly lived years, so
that you would not feel shame for a
despicable and petty past and when
dying, he could say: all life and all the
forces are given to the most important
thing in the world: struggle for the
liberation of mankind. And we must
hurry to live. After all, an absurd
illness or some tragic accident can
interrupt it." These words belong to a
man whose life path lasted only 32
years, 9 of which he spent, being
bedridden with an incurable disease.
Everything that seems terrible
today will seem funny tomorrow. Do
not carry any problems inside.
Happiness cannot be shared, grief must
be poured out. Otherwise, what we
have parents and close friends for!
In Islam, the saying "the keys to
heaven are at the feet of the mother"
(or "paradise under the feet of the
mother") is very popular. If the mother
or father has offended you, remember
that your DUTY is to honor your
parents. In time, you will realize that
these are the only people on Earth who
love you simply because you exist.
Everyone else will love you for
something.
Life is the greatest value.
Everything except death can be
changed.
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