When I was sixteen my best friend’s girlfriend started crying during the study hall she and I had together. Concerned, I’d gotten up and moved to the desk beside her as quickly as I could to find out why she was sitting there in a fit of sniffles. Her response to my constant questioning was to push a hard covered book at me. The book jacket was missing; the cover of the book itself was a very light blue.
My first reaction when she insisted I read it was to tell her that it was a girly book. She’d laughed and told me that I would enjoy it. To be kind I read the first chapter. And then I read the second. And then I read the entire book.
The book itself was written decently. What got me though was that the story behind it was like nothing I’d ever read or heard of before. Granted, it was a love story, but its effect on me wasn’t quite what I expected. I didn’t expect to cry when it was over. I did though. I cried because of the way it was written , and I cried because of how it ended. Not that the ending was some climatic masterpiece…but because it wasn’t. It didn’t weigh on me the way the story itself had.
The main character of the book spent much of the first chapter, and sections of the following chapters, referencing several side effects of dying as she worded it. Cancer, depression, both of these and many other things were tidbits she liked to call side effects.
Although her words have stuck with since
I first picked the novel up I’ve never quite agreed with them. The side effects
of dying weren’t side effects of dying at all. They were side effects of something
more powerful and vastly more celebrated. These were not side effects of dying,
but side effects of being alive. Somehow though, the two phenomena are so
intertwined that there is no way to have one without the other. Because being
alive is another side effect of dying. Being a person is another side effect of
dying. Being a human being with real thoughts, actions, bodily functions,
emotions, all of this is a side effect of dying. Because dying is a side effect
of being alive as well.
A life, as it turns out, is
something that is both precious to hold onto and peculiar to maintain, a lesson
learned in the early stages of youth and used to grow into the greying ages of
wisdom. A young life seems to be worth so much more than an aged life, even though
a young life hasn’t had time to become smart or skilled, strong or patient,
calm or nurturing. I guess many look at a young life as a life that has the
ability to grow and be cultured, to be turned into a socially acceptable being;
whereas an old life has grown as much as it ever will, it is not going to get
any better or brighter and its opinions will never truly change. This is why
losing a young life takes such a toll on the community it belonged to whereas
losing an old life is mourned but ultimately forgotten.