Christopher Parent, my friend Jerome’s son, died on February 28, 2018. He was just 32 years old, the victim of physical and life problems that would have pushed anyone to the limit. The moment I learned of his death, I felt relief for him and sorrow for his family, who will be suffering for the rest of their lives. Christopher was a compassionate, loyal, eccentric genius, a rare breed by anyone’s definition. He remains a powerful presence even in his absence.
The memorial service took place at Ute Pass Cultural Center in Woodland Park on March 11. Guests arrived at casual intervals, everyone orderly and neatly dressed. I listened to the low hum of intimate discourse, sometimes interrupted by random outbursts of uncontrolled grief. Friends and family caught up on recent events and discussed Christopher as if he were standing next to them. Many shared idiosyncratic anecdotes in keeping with his personality. Music from the animated special The Snowman played quietly, most notably the song “Walking in the Air,” which had always been one of Christopher’s favorites. As a little boy, he used to imagine himself flying through the air with the snowman.
A big chocolate cake trimmed in orange frosting sat on a long table covered with a nice mix of food and beverages. Nearby, three tasteful floral arrangements sat at the front of a broad stage. Behind them, pictures scrolled across a big screen, some of friends and family, others of urban and landscape settings taken by Christopher himself. He was a talented photographer. Multiple pictures from one mountaintop location showed thick clouds rising up the slope, threatening to engulf the photographer. Another photo, an older one, showed the four Parent family members sitting in repose, each of them wearing a soft, natural smile.
Soon, everyone took their seats and the service moved swiftly based on a simple plan. Jerome’s friend Mike explained the itinerary. First, anyone who wanted to come forward and share some thoughts on Christopher was welcome to do so. One of Christopher’s aunts spoke first. She was teaching at an American school in Tokyo in 2011 when the Fukushima disaster struck. Her husband was in the hospital with colon cancer and lymphoma, and she was also tending to a baby daughter. She and her school colleagues were afraid that radiation would be engulfing Tokyo soon, and many of them left. At the time, Christopher was serving on the attack submarine USS Columbia, and he had access to situation reports that detailed where the radiation dangers were. He explained to his aunt what their risks were and weren’t. As a result, he calmed her nerves, and when she realized she was safe, she and others returned to the school.
One of Christopher’s friends discussed his time with Christopher on the Woodland Park High School forensics team. The friend had been a Special Education student who grew up in a very religious family. Christopher was a two-time state champion in extemporaneous speaking and one of two representatives to be chosen for the forensics national championships two years in a row. The friend said that Christopher was one of the only people who ever intellectually challenged him on a serious and consistent basis. As a result, he learned to examine the line between belief and doubt with greater clarity. Being on the debate team with Christopher made him think more like Aquinas and Augustine, he said, and as a result, he wound up earning a college degree in theology.
A life-long friend recounted a grade-school incident regarding Christopher that changed his life. When Christopher was in the 3rd grade, a notorious bully picked on him every day. The school principal simply said that he wished Christopher would handle the bully for everyone’s sake. Jerome finally told Christopher, “Son, maybe you can’t be bigger and stronger, but you can be smarter and act crazier. Hit that kid as hard as you can when he doesn’t expect it, like right in front of a teacher.” The next day as the children stood in line as they came back from recess, Christopher slugged the bully square in the face and cracked his head against a wall. Christopher went to the principal, nothing happened, and the bully left him alone after that. Unofficially, the principal and the teachers were glad. For Christopher’s life-long friend, this was a lesson in using strategy in order to stand up for oneself.
In all, five people shared their thoughts. Once it was clear that everyone who wanted to speak had done so, Jerome rose, turned to the audience, and told us that Christopher had written a letter for that very moment, his own memorial service. He had penned it when he was 24 years old, a full eight years earlier. Then, Jerome read most of the letter, which was still true to Christopher’s character–a testament to his sense of integrity. And here is where I turn the rest of the conversation over to Christopher. Following is his letter in its entirety.
Forward:
This letter is not intended to be a holographic will in any way. This document is intended to neither change, alter, nor amend, nor addendum my legal will and testament. This is merely a communication from myself about how I hope those around me will choose to deal with my death. This document is intended to be read by anyone who knew me and desires to read it. This is not a private letter and should be transmitted to anyone who feels affected by my death.
To Whom it Concerns:
You are reading this because I have died. I have not passed away, I have not ascended the iron curtains, I have not gone to meet the holy maker. I have died. Plain and simple. Just like everything in the universe save for entropy, just like every living creature, I have expired. And while I am not vain enough to think that many people care about my death (millions die a year) I am realistic enough to know that a select few may feel affected by it. If you’re one of them, then the first step to dealing with this is to realize the above. I have died. I’m not coming back, and it isn’t some pretty idea.
The first thing that I want you to understand is that while I write this I am twenty-four years old. I am sitting alone in my apartment and I am drinking a crown and coke. The second thing that I want you to understand is that I do not and have not ever feared death. It is a level of departure from my upbringing so great I cannot pretend to fathom where my ideas on the topic came from. My mother and father both, I am very sure, contain a great deal of fear about the subject, as do a very large percentage of our Judeo-Christian western world. But what I want to convey to you is that I am not. And here’s why:
Death is NATURAL. Just as birth and infancy is a stage of life and a state of being so is death. Just as birth is something amazing and to be cherished so is death. neither one is special: It happens to all living creatures, and yet both are the closest things to miracles I have ever encountered. Just as you have to refill your gas tank at the end of the week, living things are born and die. I am dead, your great-great-great grandmother is dead, and someday you and everyone you know will die too.
We’ve been taught that this is a tragedy. That death is sad. It isn’t. Regardless of circumstance. It is simply a state of being, much as the aspen are green as glory in the Spring and violent yellow and red in the autumn. Neither one is special, yet they both are amazing and neither one is to be feared. And if I have died young and under what the news would call “unfortunate” circumstances so be it. Death is not misfortune. Ever. Death is a release from many things and thus in its own right a wonderful occurrence. I do not pretend to know nor have any expectations of death (or as some call it some sort of life afterwards) but I do know that it is a change of state of being. And with it comes release from many burdens of being alive.
Something I want to remind you of, about my death, yours, or any others (whether you feel blue about it or not) is very simple: I, you, and the blue flower out my window HAVE ALL BEEN DEAD BEFORE. Yes, I know it seems so simple to say, but it’s true. If you are alive today, and death is the opposite of life, then you have been dead before. You were born, weren’t you? So what about before that? Were you alive? Of course not. And if something is not alive, what is it? Right, dead. I’ve been dead before so this is not a big deal. Life was simply a transition from that state to another, and now back again, like the trees and the seasons.
Another point I’d like to make is this: I do not believe in heaven or hell, but who’s to say that death isn’t much better than living? I mean, you don’t remember the time before your birth, do you? Maybe being born took you (and I for sure) from something wonderful. I mean, maybe not, maybe being not alive is awful, but my point is that nobody alive knows and thus there is an equal chance of it being an improvement or not, and few stop to consider that fact.
As to timing, et cetera: Regardless of how or why I died it was time and it was what is and was supposed to be. I promise. Of little am I more sure. As of today I am twenty-four. I have done much, met many people, and experienced many things. While I do not think I have attained any sort of grand purpose, and at this point in my life I am beginning to doubt I ever will, I have felt joy and sadness many times very deeply over many things and that to me is enough. That’s what life really is anyway. I’ve loved a girl (a couple actually, but never more than one at a time) with all my heart. I’ve been there for a friend, I’ve had friends take care of me, I’ve been shown the world through the eyes of intelligence though, thanks to my parents, a gift I feel few ever experience, I’ve had a great family who supported me even when I was being a dickhead, I’ve seen loss, good times and bad. And that, to me, is enough. Even today at twenty-four if I was to die tonight, and there is some sort of consciousness after death and I were to meet the Tao, the grand maker of everything, God, and she asked me, “What’d you think?” I’d reply, “Pretty cool. Interesting for sure. Everyone should try that.” And if she asked me if I want to be born again for another go at living I’m pretty sure I’d say, “Not yet. Not right now. I’m still processing from that go around. But thank you.”
I don’t know if these are all ramblings to you, or if any of it helps. At the very least I hope it lets you know that I died in peace, regardless of circumstance, and if I could somehow stand beside you today I would not be upset.
That all being said: Be sad. Be upset. Be angry. Be happy. Be whatever you feel. I am not trying to persuade you to not feel loss, my only point is that as far as I’m concerned, death is not tragic, and as far as you’re concerned this is no different than me moving across town and being unable to visit ever again. Many of you have taught me many many things. I have learned much from those I least expected to learn from. All I ask of you is that if I ever taught you anything, that you try and pass it along to others; even little things like how to mix a Mojito without making it go flat, or how to deal with a bully, or the fact that the larger the thread count on your sheets the better. This is how my life will have had any meaning.
Of my bodily remains and funeral arrangements I request/demand the following:
My brother is the executor of my will. In his absence my best friend ever, John Duke Raymond Miller will be in his stead. I ask that you two work together to handle my funeral as well and of that I request the following:
- This is not a sad event. No drab clothing. I want the guys in sweet suits and the girls in pretty red dresses.
- I want a death cake. Orange frosting. It’s traditional. And no wedding sponge nonsense, get a good cake that tastes like a frosted orgasm.
- Don’t play only depressing songs. You can play some, but play other stuff. Play the songs that remind people of the great times we had. A large iTunes playlist with internet access might help with this. Take requests.
- I love speeches. Anyone who wants can make a speech. However, they must have the balls to do so with a mic on some sort of stage so everyone can hear and see them.
- There should be alcohol. More to the point, a good knowledgeable bartender who can make a decent Manhattan and who knows that a damn martini uses gin not vodka dammit. People deal with death in different ways and some want help. Alcohol is not a demon it is as old as the human race. The bar tab is on me. Relax.
- About the bar tab/other expenses: I have several life insurance policies/investment accounts. My death and those I leave behind are well covered for. The celebration of my death may occur before these monies have been paid out, if so, someone front the money and pay for this shindig. I can more than cover the largest party ever, and you will be paid back by those who receive these monies.
- About the point above: Those who receive the monies, pay back in full whomever paid for this party.
- Last, and very much foremost, this is a party dammit. A celebration of a sweet time of my life that had good and bad, just like it should. About my good decisions and my screw ups. It’s a time for ya’ll to be reminded of your own impending deaths as well as to connect with people. Chill out and have a good time. Walk over to the cute girl across the room and talk to her. Run over to that hot guy and tell him you want him to take you to dinner. Live.
That’s all I have, folks. I have loved you all, I assure you. I won’t name names because you know who you are, and even those who don’t, I promise I learned from you and appreciated you and loved you all in different special ways. Mahalo.
Yours truly and forever so long as you remember,
Christopher Ryan Parent of Woodland Park, Colorado
