May 31, 2002 4 min read

Reporters at my first newspaper job, especially the most recent hires, had to catch the obits when they were called in by funeral homes. Obituaries have a standard format: name, age, hometown of deceased, perhaps a little information as to where they worked and what organizations and churches they joined. There’s also the section that explains which funeral home is handling arrangements and when services will be held.

Also listed are survivors. Such as: He is survived by his wife… or Survivors include: followed by a list of close relatives.

I always thought “survived” was an interesting word choice and wondered how it had evolved. It wasn’t until Jan. 5 that I found out how accurate that particular word describes those left behind. Because that is exactly what one does when a parent, child, spouse, best friend, lover, dies. Survive. When asked the standard question as to how you are doing. You’re not OK. You’re not fine. You’re surviving and you do it the best and only way that you can, taking one day – sometimes just one minute – at a time. No one really wants to hear that though, so you mumble that you’re fine.

Our obituary page runs daily directly across from this page. Most mornings I find myself drawn to that page. Curiosity makes me wonder why so many people die at such a young age. Good days are when all the deceased are pushing 100, but even then I wonder isn’t that too soon to squeeze every bit of what one wants out of life.

Recently it seems we have had so many losses in our community of young people. People in their prime, making great contributions, finally reaching goals. In the last couple months we’ve lost so many of our youth, tragically in accidents that never should have happened. Each one brings the echoes of James Taylor’s lyrics of sweet dreams and fine machines in pieces on the ground.

We must believe that those who leave this Earth before us do so to enter a much better place. The loss then is to those who survive and for every obituary the survivors are many. That’s not counting all the people whose lives they touched, even if just briefly.

Surviving isn’t easy, but it is a necessity and it’s mandatory. It’s a mixture of gut-grabbing sadness that if permitted could incapacitate.

And even on good days when the rawness seems as though touched by a healing balm it stands ready to unexpectedly erupt all over again.

Surviving entails tears that spring forth and spill down your cheeks when you least expect them, especially alone in the car or late at night.

Surviving really is just life moving on and forward.

It’s learning that sadness doesn’t equate with depression and there isn’t a thing wrong with feeling sad. Survivors find eventually that even sad people sleep again and eat again and yes, even laugh again. Sad people get up each day and push forward with the business of living, and sad people are lonely but they aren’t alone. There are far too many other survivors to ever be alone.

Grief, survivors find, is the tragedy of life that we do anything to avoid or acknowledge until it comes uninvited into our homes.

Survivors are left with vivid memories that must be etched on tapes with the replay button pushed unexpectedly and little pieces of a former life, a life that seemed just right, popping into view. And sometimes it’s not just memories. Is it real or merely imagination that causes survivors to smell, feel, sense and even hear a loved one? Skeptics dismiss it as wishful thinking but survivors cling to it as every bit as real and comforting as those worn-out, old pajamas, that bottle of cologne, that favorite crinkled snapshot.

I know once again today, I will be tempted to glance across this page and read the listings of deceased and their family members, the newest survivors, and my heart will break all over again for their loss even though I might not know a one of them.

Because that’s another facet of surviving, sympathy becomes empathy.

Luanne Traud is the Herald-Standard’s editorial page editor. E-mail: ltraud@heraldstandard.com.