It Comes in Threes

-in-threes/
By Tamar Kevonian on Sep 25th, 2009

Since ancient times the number `3′ has held a particular fascination
in society. A three sided triangle is considered the most durable
shape possible, the universe has three spatial dimensions – length,
width, and depth, Plato split the soul into three parts – the
appetitive, the spirited, and the rational, while Aristotle had the
principle of the three unities of time, place and action. Let’s not
forget Freud’s id, ego and superego. The Chinese consider `3′ to be a
lucky number while the Vietnamese think it bad luck to take a photo
with three people. We use the number to set things in motion – on the
count of three, or stop them – three strikes. We prime our children
with stories, nursery rhymes and fairy tales like The Three
Musketeers, Three Blind Mice and The Three Little Pig. We also believe
in the Holy Trinity – the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, that the
third time’s a charm and that death comes in threes – remember Farrah
Fawcett, Michael Jackson and Ed McMahon all died within twenty four
hours.

Death has been the main topic of conversation this week as there have
been three of them in a short ten day period. `Don’t talk like that,’
says Mike, uncomfortable whenever there is any talk of it.

`But it’s a part of life. Without death there can be no life and all
life ends in death.’

`Yeah but we don’t have to talk about it,’ he insists, choosing to
ignore the inevitable end we all face.

The news of Krikor’s death was not a shock. Since his wife’s death a
few years ago, he had begun his decline into dementia until his
retreat from those around him became complete. He was a man of short
stature whose quiet presence was in sharp contrast to his wife
gregarious personality. He was the epitome of the strength and
stability on which his children relied to achieve all that they
did. They are now doctors, well regarded in their field, with families
of their own.

`Did you hear about Rita?’ Sossi asked a week later. `She passed away
the other day.’ She finally lost her ongoing battle with cancer which
she was engage in for several

years. A woman with quiet strength and determination, Rita was
intricately involved in the community and contributed much to it over
the years. She had an easy smile and expressed herself with a soft
voice that verged on husky. She always seemed to be everywhere at
once: organizing events, attending concerts, going to meetings, and
taking care of her family. Despite the sad news, Rita’s passing was a
final freedom from a life that had become so full of physical pain.

And now the news of the third came a mere twenty four hours
afterwards, late at night. It was the unexpected and accidental death
of a woman in the midst of an active life. A petite woman who always
looked like she was on the verge of being blown away by a slight
breeze, Jenia was a powerhouse of a person who long ago decided to
dedicate her energy, time and money to actively helping children in
Armenia. In the dark, early days of the republic she sought out poor
children in need of help and personally made their daily existence a
little easier to live. She maintained a hectic schedule of travel
every season to continue what she started almost two decades ago while
still maintaining her position as the heart and soul of her family of
a husband and three sons.

While neither Krikor, Rita or Jenia knew each other while alive, they
are now forever linked in their deaths as the three people I knew who
died in the middle of this September.

With the passing of Krikor and Jenia, parents of my friends from high
school, the end of our youth and our eventual mortality came into
sharp focus. We are now at a stage in life where the care and well
being of our parents will become our responsibility. Their passing
will unequivocally thrust us in the role of adults. We will no longer
have parents to rely on for the things we have always taken for
granted: holiday dinners where all the children come together, the
favorite dish that only Mom can make, the seat that Dad always
occupied, the guidance or advice we may sought from either of them or
simply the comfort of hearing the voice of the person who loved us
unconditionally. All this will be gone forever.

Standing with the other black clad mourners united in their show of
grief and respect, the squabbles and old hurts, machination of social
interactions and struggles of jobs and positions suddenly seems small
and irrelevant. In the larger workings of the universe and the brief
time we have to enjoy all the good that is possible during our
lifetime everything else feels like a waste of energy and mental
effort.
`It’s the end of an era,’ Nancy said after Krikor’s funeral. She said
it in reference to a lifestyle of whirlwind of parties, holidays, and
life struggles she shared with her circle of friends in which Krikor
had a place.

For me and for those of my generation, it is much more than an era. It
is a graduation into a new stage in life: of being the grown-ups and
creating an era of our own that our children can remember with
fondness until they come of age and take over for us.

It is the inevitable and natural cycle of existence no matter how much
Mike doesn’t want to talk about it. By sharing our hopes, fears and
concerns about death would help us be less afraid and better prepared
for its eventual arrival.