So on Sunday night as we were making our way home from visiting my parents, my wife found out that her Uncle Omar had died.

Omar had lived by himself in a small house on Long Island, a modest home that he had shared with his parents for many years before they had died. No one had heard from him in a few weeks, so my mother-in-law—Omar’s sister and last living immediate family member—called the police and asked them to check on him. (My in-laws live in Massachusetts.) The police found Omar’s body on his kitchen floor; it appeared that he had died a few days earlier.

“A sad end,” my wife said, adding that although she was dismayed by the news, it wasn’t all that much of a surprise. Omar had long struggled with an assortment of issues, physical and psychological, and recently had increasingly isolated himself from the family.

Truth be told, he was never quite the same after his brother died of ALS back in 1999, and once his parents passed a few years later, followed by a lay off from his longtime job, what was already a fragile psyche was pretty much shattered.

I always found Uncle Omar to be an eccentric and somewhat neurotic character. Although he seemed to be a bit of a grouse at times, and certainly had interpersonal issues, he was a gentle soul, and certainly loved to laugh. If it wasn’t for his height—he was about 6’5—you probably wouldn’t notice him at all, which is how he seemed to prefer it. I’m pretty sure he was never really comfortable in that body. Or in life, in general.

Omar suffered from a bit of agoraphobia, so to get him to show up for family events was always a challenge—he might arrive at the last minute, hang around the edges of the action, and then dash out early “to beat the traffic.” He had emigrated to the United States from Argentina as a teenager, and I always wondered if being thrown into such a radical new culture and having to learn a new language during what probably were already awkward teenage years, had retarded his social development a bit.

Omar was also a confirmed bachelor, and I don’t mean that in any other way than that he was probably not emotionally or psychologically strong enough to survive any sort of long-term romantic relationship. He certainly liked kids—he was always very kind to my sons (from a comfortable distance) when he saw them, and he doted on my wife’s brother, who was his only nephew. But I don’t think he ever wanted any family of his own other than the parents, siblings, nieces and nephew that he already had. That seemed to be just about enough for him. Maybe too much at times.

Of course, being the jerk that I am, I always liked to have some fun at Omar’s expense, nearly perfecting a shallow imitation of the man that involved weakly mimicking his Argentine accent and saying occasionally inappropriate things as he was wont to do. Yeah, it was just as disrespectful as you’re imagining—fortunately, I never did it in front of him, although I think he might’ve got a laugh out of it. Hard to tell which way he might go sometimes; emotionally, he could easily startle and bolt, like a nervous deer drinking at pond.

But as I think about Uncle Omar’s passing, I keep coming back to my wife’s comment about “a sad ending.”

Omar died alone in a house that, although it was his home, was a long way from his beloved Argentina. The coroner said that in addition to other health problems, he also was suffering from lung cancer, so I tend to think his final months were probably somewhat painful.

Yes, it’s sad to us that he passed away alone like that, a very sick and ostensibly broken man. But ultimately, he was an adult, and in his own, arguably weird way, he made his own decisions. He got to choose his own end, even if it was one that many of us wouldn’t pick. Sure, it seems sad to us—but it’s a luxury that many people don’t get.

Sure, if he had reached out, steps could’ve been taken to ease his pain and make him more comfortable. But for someone who never really was going to be comfortable in life under any circumstances, being able to die on his own terms may have been as close as he could get to peace. Which may not be so sad after all.

 

So the other day, I was told by one of my favorite people that she has Hodgkin’s Lymphoma—fortunately for her, it’s Stage II, which means they caught it early enough that, with proper treatment, it has a 90 percent cure/survivability rate. She is facing chemo and radiation, and she’s going to lose her hair (among other side effects) but she has a terrific attitude, and seems to be ready to deal with it as if it’s nothing more than a minor annoyance.

Of course, after she told me about her situation, I nodded gently, put my hand on her arm, looked her in the eye and said, “Well, if you think having cancer means that I’m going to treat you nicely, I can assure you, I won’t. I’m going to make fun of you just as I always have.”

Sorry, but that’s just the way I roll, as they (the chicken people?) say. As long as I can remember, when Very Serious Things happen—sickness, death, loss, etc.—my initial reaction is to try and find the humor in it. (I think the professionals call this “a coping mechanism,” which may be psychobabble code for “he might be broken.”) Since I can’t help myself, I’ve become the go-to guy for making comments that are best described as “irreverent,” although that doesn’t quite seem to cover it.

How about “just wrong”?

For instance, about a year ago, my friend Bobby had cancer in his bladder, which fortunately, was caught early and successfully treated. His recovery has been so good—it helps that he’s a great athlete and has stayed in terrific shape—that he was able to participate in our annual Black Saturday football game last November.

During the game, Bobby was open in the endzone, and our friend Higgy zipped in a pass to him for what should’ve been a touchdown except Bobby couldn’t hang on to the pigskin. When he came back to the huddle with his head down, I tried to help him through the moment with a little humor—you know, being the sensitive friend I am and all.

“Let me guess,” I said loudly for all on the field to hear. “It was the cancer’s fault you dropped the ball.”

Reaction was mixed. A few of my friends who …. well, let’s go with “Don’t have the same exact sense of humor,” stifled any reaction in fear of being struck dead on the spot by their god. A few others laughed, including Bobby (although he wasn’t exactly slapping his knee). Personally, I thought the timing and delivery were perfect …

Come on, if you can’t laugh about cancer almost killing one of your best friends, what can you laugh about?

Funny you should ask. I may not be the person with whom you want to attend a wake. I’ve been known to put the “fun” in fun-eral.

Maybe it’s because of my obsession with death, but I just don’t sit there and weep with the others. Don’t get me wrong: I have absolutely cried and mourned the loss of loved ones, but I’ve also laughed and joked when the moment is … well, as “right” as it’s going to be. It’s not like I’m going in there with a joy buzzer and shaking the widow’s hand or doing a stand-up routine—although there’s a part of me that wants to be stuffed and mounted, and filled with animatronics so could greet people with a handshake at my wake and say, “Glad you can make it, sorry I’m dead,” which might be a good spot for a joy buzzer. Regardless, I’ve had my moments when I’ve said things in what might be classified as “inappropriate” in an attempt to lighten a moment.

After my grandfather died, my sister and parents were talking about how while making arrangements the next day, my grandmother wanted a well-sealed casket for her husband of nearly a half century. “I don’t want the worms to get him,” she had told them.

“Come on,” I said when they relayed her comments to me later that day. “It’s not like trying to keep a casserole fresh!”

Too soon? Possibly. Even though my father didn’t outwardly react to the suggestion of his father being preserved like yesterday’s leftovers, I *think* he was laughing on the inside. Or at least chuckling.

While writing this, I asked my wife Sue if she could think of other specific examples. “You know, my answer should be, ‘Do you have a notepad? Sit down,’ but right now, I’m drawing a blank,” she said. “But trust me, there have been plenty of times.”

When my work wife Moosey’s husband died unexpectedly last year, I was obviously very, very upset, but that “wrong” part of me would not be contained. For reasons I’m still not clear on, someone at work decided to pass around a card for all of us to sign individually with our condolences—and knowing that Moosey’s a sick-and-twisted freak like me, I truly wanted to write, “Hey, his Jazzy is all yours now!”

I knew it’d make her laugh (which she desperately needed), but I also realized that many of my prim-and-proper co-workers would be quite upset if they saw it, so I wrote something innocuous like, “Well, at least he wasn’t caught in bed with a mound of coke, Wilmer Valderrama and three Indonesian she-males.”*

[*It also could’ve just been “Sorry.” At my advanced age, the details tend to blur a scooch.]

It really bothered me—not only that we were passing a card around like it was a birthday or a shower (“Good luck on being single again!”), but I censored myself, and at a Very Serious Time, too. GRRRR….

Of course, when I saw her at the wake, I immediately couldn’t restrain myself and told her what I wanted to write, which we did laugh over.

Side note: We were just talking about this today, and she told me to mention that the card was the absolute weirdest—and funniest—thing ever! “What the hell were they all thinking?” she asked about everyone writing their own condolences. I *knew* it was a bad idea!! Seriously, if this ever comes up in your office—just send flowers and a “Sorry for your loss” note “From all of us.”

So yeah, *somehow* I encourage this sort of inappropriateness in others at these times.

I am the organizer of our office “Dead Pool,” which, if you’re not familiar with the concept, basically involves betting on the death of celebrities. I knew I was officially on the road to your hell a few years back when I heard that Rodney Dangerfield had died—I immediately threw my hands up in the air as if signaling a field goal had been made and shouted, “YES!”

Hey, he was worth 18 points, and I was in a tight battle for the “King of the Dead” title that year!

Okay, if anyone is still reading, here’s one “final” story, so to speak … it should give you an idea of how macabre I am that someone else felt comfortable enough to make this happen ….

After my grandmother died, while the immediate family was at the funeral home waiting for visiting hours to start, the mortician kept coming up to us, nodding to my preserved grandmother in her casket and saying, “She looks good, doesn’t she?”

For the most part, we were like, “Uh, yeah sure. You know, aside from being freakin’ dead.” Maybe he was just trying to comfort us or show off his handiwork, but it just seemed like he made the comment an inordinate amount of times.

Later, during the formal wake, Sue and I went outside to the front porch to get some air. While we were there, my buddy Bob (not cancer Bobby) arrived and after he extended his condolences, we started talking about how weird the whole concept of wakes are. I eventually mentioned the mortician’s remarks.

“You know what you should do,” Bob said, a wicked smile coming over his face. “Next time he says it, grab him by the lapels, shove him up against the casket and shout, ‘YOU F#@KED HER, DIDN’T YOU?! DIDN’T YOU?!! DIDN’T YOUUUUUU?!!!!!'”

It took us about 20 minutes to compose ourselves before we could go back into the wake. And none of us could make eye contact with the mortician—heck, I’m pretty sure I never even looked at my grandmother’s body ever again.

So yeah, like the old Barenaked Ladies song, I pretty much always laugh at funerals. And now, next time you hear a comment about “how good” someone looks, you will, too.

You’re welcome! See you in hell …