The randomness of death

How strange. Yesterday I wrote about death -- but in the most positive terms. I took note of The Dougy Center's robust fundraising efforts to sustain peer support groups for kids who've lost a parent or sibling. And now, as I sit down to write on a Friday evening, I'm struck by the astounding randomness with which Death (yes, with a capital D) announces his arrival.

This morning I did a double-take when I read the headline stripped across the top of the Metro section: "Heart attack kills Lake Oswego chief." The poor guy, Dan Duncan, was 55 years old and had just announced last week that he was stepping down as police chief. He was found dead in his home Thursday. He was supposed to have had a retirement party at City Hall today.

"Cruel" is the first word that comes to mind. A guy works all his life in law enforcement, including 25 years in Lake Oswego, and leaves with a clean reputation, then keels over before he even has a chance to begin retirement.

"Ironic" is the second word that comes to mind. Lake Oswego has got to be one of the least stressful places to be a cop, given its affluence, low crime rate and embarrassing lack of diversity (they don't call it Lake No Negro for nothing).

I didn't know Duncan. But a day earlier, as I stumbled across the obituaries on the back of the Business section, I spotted a familiar face, that of John Jacob Sigurdson, the youngest of four children born to Icelandic immigrants who moved to the Northwest in 1935. He would have been 5 years old then. He died on Monday at age 79.

I knew him as Jack. When I joined The Oregonian in 1985, one of my first jobs was working on the regional desk, editing stories with rural datelines all across Oregon, Washington and Idaho. Jack was the layout editor for the Northwest pages (we'd call him a page designer today) and he was as old school as they come.

Jack wore a short-sleeved white shirt every day, with a plain vanilla tie. He brought a sack lunch every day and usually ate at his desk. He whistled while he worked (who does that anymore?) and he wore a No. 2 pencil behind one ear. In those days, as a young, ambitious editor, I was focused more on figuring out the strengths and weaknesses of the reporters I worked with and adapting to the substantially larger newsroom that I had joined. I honestly couldn't tell you a thing about Jack as a person and I doubt he knew a thing about me -- it's just the way it was in a big newsroom, with our given specialties and generational differences.

So now I come to learn that he graduated from high school in Seattle; that his college major was speech; that he was a religious man; that he had three children, 10 grandchildren, four great-grandchildren; and that he would have been married 50 years to the love of his life, Phyllis, had he made it to June 10th.

At age 57, I'm now three years older than Jack was when I began working with him and two years older than poor Dan Duncan, the police chief. Mentally and physically, I feel nowhere near that age. And yet, I'd be foolish to think my good health and a long life are guaranteed. Sure, I'd like to retire on my own schedule and still be in great condition so I can enjoy a life of relaxation and adventure with Lori. So, Death, if you're reading this, cut me some slack, ok? I've got a lot of living left to do.

Photograph: http://jameswoodward.wordpress.com/2009/03/