Before Night is Through

I stole the title of this from a book I read; I'll admit it. It's a good book on a scary subject: death.
I am having to come to terms with what death means to me as I get ready to train as a hospice volunteer. Everyone I have talked to about it is concerned. A few think I am crazy to take on what could potentially be a depression-inducing situation that most people would pay the devil to avoid. Here I am rushing into it. Well, not rushing in a sense that I haven't thought it through. It's been occupying my mind almost non-stop for a week or more. I've probably been doing a normal person's 6-months worth of thinking, though. When I get to contemplating, it's fairly serious.
I've already had insights, the kind some people wait a lifetime for. That tells me a lot.
Lesson #1:
It is not my place to assume the worst about someone when they make a decision I would not make. Sounds simple, right? But how many of us have criticized the person who brings their new girlfriend to a funeral? (Ah ha! We've all had that niggling little thought that they are being somehow disrespectful! We've heard our aunties call them 'show-boaters' and whisper about how disgraceful it is. And maybe, deep down, we thought so too.) I specifically criticized (in my own mind) the decision of a parent not to hold a memorial for their son.
Lesson #1, Part a: I am an ass sometimes, as are we all. Who am I to tell someone how to grieve, and what does it say about me that I automatically assume that a decision made during a time of grief in any way reflects that the person making the decision cares less than they should? It might say a lot. I'm still working on it.
Lesson #2:
It might be really, really important to look death in the eye. Ignoring any problem or uncomfortable thing allows all sorts of fallouts to happen. In the case of death, you really can't go back and say "But I really wanted to be cremated", or "I hate white lilies. Why are there white lilies everywhere?" You can't give your iPod to your cubicle mate post-mortem, and you can't make sure that your Aunt Edna's patchwork quilt goes to the one kid that can actually appreciate it and not try to sell it on the Antiques Roadshow. One of death's ancient names means 'The Great Leveler"--we're all going there and we're going there with nothing but ourselves. This one has me thinking a lot.
Lesson #3:
There is no destination. Maybe there really is no time in your life that you should say "I'm here." When it comes to grieving, it is more likely that you will always say, "It's getting better." It's okay if it's never gone. We live in a fast-paced society that says you should be back to work in a few days and fully functional in a few weeks. Really? Who says?

Lesson #4:
I'm learning. If I had a deity to tell that to, I would. Instead, I'll throw that out to my painfully mortal brothers and sisters. I think the definition of a life well-lived includes something about being open to learning even past the time that I feel that maybe I should know all this stuff by now.