weird, disturbing

Our neighbor next door passed away. He was pretty young - in his 40's - and had apparently been under chemotherapy. We came home from work last Friday night to find our apartment surrounded by cop cars and the medical examiner's van, where they stayed most of the night until they finally wheeled out the body, covered in a sheet, and took off. We asked the coroner guy what was the cause of death; he said he didn't know for sure, but it looked like he bled pretty well out of his chemo port. Today, we found out he'd had a stroke, though I'm not sure of the mechanics of how that makes one bleed profusely onto the carpet. I'd made the mistake on New Year's Day of peeking my head around the fence corner, thinking that in a few days they'd already cleaned the place up. Nope. Even from the street, you could see the massive dried area where the poor guy had bled out... and it made me nauseous and disturbed and upset all at once.

I think it disturbed me, not because it happened so close to us, but how easily it could have been me or Jason or my brother or whomever. This guy lived alone, and, I'm ashamed to say, not once in the year and a half living next door did Jason or I ever introduce ourselves or say hello when we (rarely) crossed paths outside our fence doors. Once, I was babysitting the Boo when I did run into him... and he sort of creeped me out, for whatever reason, so I answered in as few monosyllabic words as I could and scooted out of there with my young charge. He lived alone, unmarried, with a small yappy dog and a very loud stereo, and the only reason anyone found him was because his mother didn't receive her daily call from him and sent the security guy to go check on him.

Death makes me intensely examine my own situation, and it also lends itself to glorifying the deceased: suddenly, this man who I only remembered prior to this as having the ugliest feet in America and who made me feel uncomfortable is now, magically, this angelic, humble saint whom I failed by not being intimately involved in his daily life, because if I had been, maybe he wouldn't be dead now. I mean, I don't even know his name, but man alive, I am sorry he is gone.

It just makes me thankful for the bed I climb into every night next to the man I happily married and the good health I carry, along with a legion of caring friends and family. But I am sad it was too late for this man. Requiescat in pace, dear stranger.