O, Death

Yesterday was shit and today wasn't much better. Death sucks. Don't let anyone tell you it doesn't. At the end of yesterday I felt like crap after crying, then talking to lots of people and feeling better, and eating lots of rich food, then crying again. Not even 2 mocha grandes could get me through it, and that's usually my anti-grief/ uncontrollable crying weapon of choice.
A few people even gave me bewildered glances as I sobbed when the casket with our mutual friend and colleague in it came out of the mortuary chapel, bourne by other, stronger mutual friends and colleagues. Yes, I was crying. I cried- at a funeral! For God's sake, why couldn't I control myself??? F- them too. At least I spared the family my blubbering in that condolences line or whatever you call it. Got about 5 feet away, then sprinted for the side door. Couldn't do it. Perhaps it gave them comfort just to see how many people loved, admired, respected and knew him, but cripes, they don't know me. Why burden them with my grief when that's all I have to give at the moment? I'll get myself together and pay fitting tributes later. Like, for the rest of my life. But right now, I still can't believe it.
After finding out a few more salient details at the funeral and the "wake" reception held by a co-worker, I'm also still officially in that "angry" phase of grief. For instance, apparently all the men on Dale's side of the family had died in their 50's of some sort of heart problem. But he wouldn't go to a doctor. Dammit, Dale! People need you! People depend on you and love you!
I think he must have had inklings, and decided to eat better, but still didn't want to go and get the official prognosis, because it would have just depressed him. In the last 6-8 months it seemed like he was slowly fading away from us, physically and emotionally. I hardly ever saw him, but when I did he barely said "hi" and he looked pale, and gray. I think the last time I saw him, it was crossing Colfax at Grant, him going towards the museum, me going to the gym which is near the office he worked in. I recognized him (barely) and said "hello Dale!" he smiled in recognition and said hello back, and kept quickly walking. I knew he was having stressful times at work and seemed to be withdrawing into himself. Like he just didn't want to be bothered. Maybe this is too much psychoanalysis but this is what people do when someone dies suddenly.
Actually, I'll bet he's doing a big Homer Simpson "doh!" up in heaven right now. And perhaps, St. Peter's giving him a gentle smack upside the head. He's saying, geez louise, I knew my days were numbered, but couldn't I have just a little more time? St. Pete's shaking his head no. "Well pal, if you'd gone to the doctor a year ago like your wife told you to? Maybe. But no."
Apparently this was nothing new, because one time he slipped and fell on the ice and broke his wrist, and didn't go to the doctor then either. Just wrapped it up with Ace bandages and an ice pack for several weeks. It never healed properly, and caused him pain for the rest of his life. But he never complained.
Apparently he had been visiting his mother last Sunday, and left kind of earlier than usual, and it happened while he was walking up to the bus stop. Someone must have seen him collapse, and called an ambulance. Jesus, I hope so.
It was a week ago. Just a week ago.
I have to post this final, hilarious story that Mark Wolfe told at the service, as a tribute to Dale's humour which is what we all appreciated most about him (as well as the encyclopedic knowledge). Mark had left the Colorado SHF office for greener pastures in of all places, Texas, as their new State Historic something or other- in August. Evidently the desk that he had used all these years belonged to him, not the State, and he wanted it shipped down to him as soon as feasible. At his expense of course, but still, kind of a pain for the office staff. So in typical Dale fashion, he makes a big practical joke out of the whole thing. Last Monday, Mark walks into his office bright and early (not having heard anything at the time) to find a medium-sized cardboard box on his desk addressed to him but marked "PERSONAL."
It doesn't weigh a lot, so he opens it cautiously and inside finds... a ransom note, complete with stereotypical magazine-cut-out letters, for his desk. It says basically, give us $500 or you will never see this desk again. DO NOT call the police. He digs down further in the package and finds, in a small plastic baggie, one knob, taken from the desk.
We all hooted and howled with laughter, through our tears. Dale had the last word, and he made us all laugh.
The most poignant part is that then Mark sat down and opened his email as usual, and found out that one of his best friends had died.
There's not a whole lot, funny or unfunny, that can make that better. I don't think many of us want to be "better" just yet. We want to keep on feeling shitty for as long as it takes. We'd like to be the better people that Dale inspired us to be- to have more integrity, a stronger work ethic, more patience with idiots, strive for greater accuracy- but frankly that seems impossible right now. As historians, archaeologists, and human beings, we need to mark the passing of a truly great man, and mourn him properly. It's the end of an era, the Dale Heckendorn era, and none of us know what that means yet except a lot less laughter in the face of adversity.