All Heroes die. There is no such thing as immortality in the real world. Firemen? They die on the job. Policemen? They die. Doctors? They die too. No matter how hard you try, you can’t beat death. There are only two certainties in life; living and dying. What makes a life good? Is it how many lives you save? How much justice you bring to the world? What new discoveries in medical science you find? Or is it a simple smile as you pass someone on the street. Could it be that living a good life is determined not by grandiose actions but by small actions. Could it be that heroes are those who don’t receive credit for being a hero, only known to them and who they affected?
My inspiration is my uncle. Last year he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The doctors told us that the cancer could not be removed and that chemo therapy would not do anything to shrink it. They told us that he had three months to live. The news was shocking. I felt as if someone had taken me out of my warm water tank and thrust me into the cold ocean. It left me gasping for air, flailing my limbs about searching for a ledge, somewhere to get out. I had never known someone who died. Death wasn’t concrete for me yet. Death was a whimsical idea you tossed around. Of course, I knew the response to comfort someone. “I’m sorry for your loss.” We say it almost like robots programmed to say anything to get us out of an uncomfortable situation, just to satisfy ourselves.
So I went on waiting and treading the ocean water. Soon my motions became routine as my arms slowed, now the water did not feel so cold. Three months passed and my uncle was still alive. Five months. Nine months. The longer I tread the water, the more complacent I got. Around this time I went to go visit my uncle. I didn’t know what I was expecting to see but when I looked at him I wanted to turn away. His body was a skeleton with skin draped over it. Where muscle and fat had once been, skin now hung like silk curtains. His face was gaunt. His eyes once a brilliant blue now looked as if someone has laid glazed glass over them. I kept from turning around and denying this was my uncle. That my uncle could never look like this, but I didn’t. I looked at him full on and felt the cold creep into my limbs once more.
A few months after that visit I woke up one morning. My mom walked into my room, face laden with heaviness. “Your uncle died last night.” She whispered. We embraced each other. I could feel the waves begin to toss. Huge swells came crashing down on my head. I tried to breath but freezing water filled my lungs instead. I was drowning, drowning, drowning. I reached out and felt for something, anything. My hand latched on to something warm. It was a hand, a hand of faith. It brought me up from under the sea. Water seeped from my lungs and my clothes and warmth began to emanate from inside my stomach out to my toes and fingers.
The lighter side of death came into view. My uncle wasn’t suffering anymore. Where he was now was a place without sadness, without sin, without pancreatic cancer. I began to reflect on how much my uncle had grown in faith from his experience. I realized it wasn’t only him but my whole family. Somehow he had taken death and fought it. He turned it around and told it he was going to win. Yes, he lived longer than he thought. Most of all he lived more fully in death than he ever did in life. In this way he won over death, he now lives forever in God’s eternal world. He helped me to realize death is the real beginning of life. All who live after death are heroes.
