He Died Doing What He Loved

Day 1234.

Our grief group has a family who’s son Alex died several years ago, skiing the powder that he loved so.

“He died doing what he loved” they say. It appears to console them.

As George’s snowboarding career advanced, the tricks became more and more extreme, more and more dangerous.

Adam, Luke and I would often check in on the elephant in the room, that George could, as many have, die doing this. We checked in so that we all understood that no one of us was driving this, apart from George.

We checked that each of us were OK with the risk of letting him do what he loved. “If he dies, at least he dies doing what he loved” Luke would say. And yes, we were all in agreement George should be allowed to live his life, following his dream.

Luke had felt the same about his passion for competing in equestrian cross country riding, and in fact, joined The Pony Club at a tender age after watching someone die in an international competition, inspired by that very notion saying “If I am going to die, I want to die doing what I love, Mummy”

By all accounts, Luke loved to be high. I know he wanted to experience all the drugs.

He took too many, he took more than his friends.

My Mother cried as she asked “Did Luke just like to be high?” Yes, he did.

It would appear that he had not yet reached the point, when it was no longer fun.

So, Luke did die doing what he loved.

So why does it not feel right to say that? Because it doesn’t.

Is it the stigma of drug use that separates the feeling of this notion in drug death from those who died skiing in powder? Is it less noble?

I say it out loud to myself, often.

I am trying it on for size because it would be so liberating to truly feel that, but it just doesn’t feel right.

Is that stigma gripping me?

I’ll check in with Alex’s parents and see how long it took for that phrase to console them, or even if it truly does.