The Ever-Sad Thrill of Death

Saman Kunan

Each time I hear about the diver who died after bringing O2 to the kids in the Thai cave yesterday I feel so sad. 

I live in Vancouver, BC. In our province we have many high mountains and rushing rivers, snowfields and waterfalls. We rest against a broad ocean and there are endless tracks in our forests. Ten minutes from the city you can go off the trail for an adventure and find yourself hopelessly lost.

Three young adventurers, who made their living filming themselves doing daring thngs in nature, died this week in falls I have camped near several times. Their friends and families are mourning and in shock. When these things happen, as they do so very often here, amongst the tears I hear expressions meant to console--that they died doing something they loved.

Saman Kunan died because a group of children, led by an adult, went on an extremely dangerous lark as the result of a dare. He may have been doing something he loved, but he wasn't doing it for fun, and he wasn't risking other people's lives to enjoy himself.

He isn't the first rescuer to die in the attempt of saving other lives.

I didn't know Saman or his family but I am feeling grief for him which is accentuated by years of hearing stories like this on the radio, over and over again, of people going unprepared into the backcountry or of difficult, heroic attempts to peel daredevils off of cliff-faces. I do also grieve for the young people who have not yet learned that they aren't invulnerable, whose joy in their strength and physicality and the thrill of risk is not tempered by sufficient belief that staying alive is thrilling, too. It was one year ago to the day from the death of the three vloggers at Shannon Falls that the young Irish footballer, David Gavin, drowned when he dove into the churning waters of a river near Golden, BC. He knew he could handle it. They knew they could handle it.

What is my point? That people shouldn't take risks? That we should leave them to it if they do stupid things that risk their lives and our own?

I don't know that I have a point, actually. Sometimes when I hear these things, some guy in flip flops who decided to leave the designated trails and ends up with a three day all out search through the mountainside, I get huffy like my parents would and grumble, "Leave him up there! Make him pay for the rescue!" and other such sympathetic things. So sure, the sheer waste of it angers me, too.

But right now I'm overwhelmingly sad. Sad at a world where peoples en masse are facing abuse and death trying to escape their violent and impoverished homelands. Sad at a world where men like he-who-shall-not-be-named are doing everything they can to roll back the rights of the environment and the humans who dwell in it. Sad at young people who throw their lives and those of their rescuers away for a thrill.

The Grand Old Lollipop of Life

How long has it been since I announced my new home? Six days? Well--surprise! I'm moving somewhere else.

You will remember that I had some regrets about the new place, mixed in with the relief and happiness I felt at finally putting my search to rest. I was happy about the mountains, and the sky, and the light. I loved the people at Anavets, Beth especially, who runs the office, and Ruby, her boss, but even the residents seemed sweet to me. I was thrilled that I could have an animal, if I chose to. But the size of the place was yet smaller than my own, with no balcony or patio, no garden, and reduced privacy. I was ready to make that compromise, and knew I could be happy there, but I was sad to say goodbye to my plants and the ability to fling open my door and just be outside. (There is only a small window to open there, though there is a larger non-opening window.

Well, I was very unexpectedly offered an apartment at the place I have been going back to every two or three months, pestering the manager and over time discovering what a lovely woman she is. The new place is a small one bedroom, with lots of cupboard and closet space, more privacy, spacious kitchen and bathroom (compared to most you'll find in tiny apartments, that is), a patio, and my own private garden. It is run by an Italian organization and is reminiscent of the Roman villas, with a courtyard in the centre--but not a paved, desolate coutryard, a grassy, treed yard with a small gazebo for barbecues and vegetable plots for the residents. And it is joined to an extended care home so once we get too rickety to take care of ourselves, we can move next door and not be separated entirely from our homes once more.

Before I left Erminia, I gathered my courage and asked if there might be a place there where I could plant my magnolia, because I didn't want to leave it behind to be mowed over when the building comes down. She was very understanding that I might want to keep this friend nearby, and said we would try to fit it in outside my place, and if not, in the central yard!!!

I am astonished. Shocked and gobsmacked and shaken and thrilled. There is only one sad note: no pets. I hadn't decided that I would get an animal, but I had a very good cry as I contemplated never ever having one again. I am lucky that I get to walk Susan's dog, Juniper. And that I get a cuddle now and then from Joani's kitty, my nephew, Albert.

Life continues to amaze me. I cannot believe I have obtained such a beautiful home. There is artwork in the hallways! And I'm halfway to making my first friend there--Dee, the woman whose place I will be taking. She is moving down the hall to a larger, more mobility-impaired-friendly apartment.

It has been an exhausting, horribly frightening two years (minus a month) since I first learned our building had sold. I have hit the depths on more than one occasion as I considered the housing situation in Vancouver and how unlikely it would be that I would end up somewhere I really liked. But I held out, and now I have three apartments in my possession, two of which I am in the process of giving up. (THAT was one of the hardest phone calls I've ever made--to tell Beth at Anavets, the wonderful, welcoming woman who rented me that lovely tiny home, that although I haven't even entirely moved in yet, I'm moving out.)

They say you should count your blessings. I have been doing that a lot today. An unbelievable number of wonderful things are stuffed into my own little, shivery life. For that I give enormous thanks.