Granted, not all Sopranos-taught
life-lessons are ones to jot down in your ‘ways to live’ journal, but recently
I noted one Mafioso tradition that, in fact, makes a lot of sense to me... In
‘the business’, as soon as they discover the news of someone’s death, they
immediately – instinctively – drink to that person. In fact, it’s such a
completely normal occurrence that, wherever they may be – whether at home, at
the office, in the car, or in front of the pork store – there’s always a bottle
of something strong and a group of shot glasses (or, in the case of the car, a
hip flask) ready for such an occasion.
“A’ salut,” they say, clinking glasses in exactly that: a salute to someone dear. And good on them, I say.
“A’ salut,” they say, clinking glasses in exactly that: a salute to someone dear. And good on them, I say.
It’s a thought I’ve revisited at least twice over
the last week or so: first upon learning the awful, awful news that a dear
friend’s ill baby girl had died. And then again a few days ago when it was
revealed to me that my Twitter friend Ellie – and, more to the point, fellow cancer-blogger
and secondary-sister, each trudging through terminal Bullshit as best we know
how – had, after a short stay in hospital, been taken from us too, mere weeks
from her wedding.
As tragic circumstances go, they’re both
right up there in sheer horrendousness. And by heck, did I need a drink after
hearing about each of them. But actually, sod what I need – because in truth,
what I’d much rather have done was raise a shot glass – not out of
alcohol-fueled relief, but in the bittersweet celebration of a life; an
immediate opportunity to say, in spite of the tragically short lives in each
circumstance, ‘Thank you, brilliant girl, for what you brought to the world’.
I suppose the real-life alternative is a cup
of tea, though that’s generally just used as a receptacle to cry into;
something to hold onto when you don’t know what to do next, let alone what to
do with your hands in the immediate minutes after hearing shitty news. What I’m
saying, I suppose, is just that I think it’s good, wherever possible, to somehow
squeeze a thankful thought into the otherwise heartbreaking nature of ‘that moment’.
It was neither tea nor tequila that
followed ‘that moment’ in Ellie’s case, however, but a hastily-arranged day-trip
to Brighton with Kris and Francesca (two marvelous lasses in similarly shitty
situations) – something we’d planned to do with Ellie this summer while Fran
and I are on treatment breaks. And okay, it may not be the simple ‘salut’ I
mentioned earlier, but it’s still an immediate tribute; it’s still a thank-you.
(Plus, it’s got chips and candy floss. And it’ll all be done in honour of
Ellie, in the spirit of Bullshit-ass-kicking we all share.)
Naturally, a haunting time has since
followed, teamed up with a million panic-attacks and a million questions – did
she feel okay towards the end; did she even know what was going on; was she
happy with how it happened; where is she now…? But knowing that, immediately
after discussing the news, Francesca, Kris and I were able to plan something
positive has, I think, made the three of us feel like we’ve done the correct
thing by Ellie, and – given the circumstances – the correct thing by us, too.
Of course, I have no more justification than
anyone to tell a person how best to behave in ‘that moment’. Heck, the
immediacy of grief is hardly something you can rehearse, is it, whether or not
you’d ideally like it done a certain way. And so, please, I don’t want you to
go reading too much into this post (but, y’know, don’t forget it either). I’m
just saying… simultaneously recognising what you’ve had as well as what you’ve lost
by saluting your loved one with a little snifter… it’s just a nice gesture, is
all.
