Everyone he knew was pushing him, enthusiastically cheering him on to write the story of his life. But Dave was modest, about the possibility that he or his life might be special. He had impostor syndrome as much as any of us even though he lived large, authentically, and more fully than most people while trapped in that shitty paralyzed body of his.
I call myself a reluctant biographer because he was supposed to write his story. He repeatedly tried to talk me into writing it and I strongly resisted doing so. I offered to take dictation and/or edit because it was his story to tell in his words. I am not one to give in easily once I have taken up a position but at this point, I can’t argue with a dead guy. I am reluctant because what if I get it wrong? What if I can’t remember everything that needs to be said? I haven’t even finished grieving all the way yet or fully accepted that he is not here to laugh with about all of these stories including his perfectly timed, untimely death.
This book time travels sharing snippets of a view into his epic failed autobiography. Failed because he died suddenly without notice, without really getting started. He dictated a few skeletal drafts of very random stories. Quitting was uncharacteristic of him. He legitimately played the best excuse for not finishing something ever, because nothing is more epic than or beats death. He would have LOVED how perfect pulling the death card was for forcing me to finish what he started.
So far what I have experienced is that grief has infinite stages, sharp edges, and layers as unexpected, complicated, and as inevitable as death itself. Almost a decade of years on, the irony is still hilarious as I laugh myself to laughing tears talking with his friends, revisiting memories, trying to remember everything I can remember, creating this hybrid biogra-moir, and learning how to grieve in the process.
Thank you for checking out Viking Funeral, for checking out my brother Dave.