A Few Notes on Bear Attacks and the Absurdity of Death

The odds of being killed in a grizzly bear attack this century are one in 18.2 million. You are more likely to die from a coconut falling on your head than from a grizzly bear attack. You are more likely to die from a flying champagne cork than from a grizzly bear attack. You are more likely to die from falling out of bed than from a grizzly bear attack.

In 2018, my brother died in a grizzly bear attack. When I got on a Frontier flight to fly back to Wyoming for his funeral, there was a picture of a grizzly bear on the tail fin of the plane. “On behalf of Grizwald, the Grizzly Bear, I’d like to welcome you to sunny Jackson Hole, Wyoming,” the plane captain said. 

I don’t even know how to calculate the odds of having your plane stenciled with the photo of a giant grizzly bear. 

Merriam-Webster tells me that absurdity means something appearing as ridiculously unreasonable. Speaking as someone who knows, it feels ridiculously unreasonable to have your brother killed in a grizzly bear attack. Then again, all untimely death feels ridiculously unreasonable to those who carry the responsibility of remembering and mourning. 

Merriam-Webster also tells me that absurdity can mean “having no rational or orderly relationship to human life: meaningless.” Since my brother’s death was undeniably absurd, was it meaningless? It hurts me to admit the truth hidden behind that question. 

In the days, weeks, and months after Mark passed, I listened to all the meanings that people placed on my brother’s death. Some were practical: “He died doing what he loved.” Some were resentful: “If the man he was with just knew how to use a Glock.” Many were religious: “He was a man of deep faith. He’s with Jesus now.” 

Some were comforting. Some felt dishonest. All were offered in complete sincerity. 

Ultimately, I have come to a few of my own conclusions. First, I couldn’t help but ascribe meaning to his life and, therefore, to his death. Second, the meaning I gave his death is unique to me, is based on my subjectivity, and reflects my relationship with him. Third, believing in that meaning helps me grieve his loss, remember my connection to him, and find ways of moving forward. 

This work, A Few Notes on Bear Attacks and the Absurdity of Death/For M.U., is offered up, in the spirit of absurdity, as a memorial for my brother Mark and a poetic expression of our need to make meaning in the face of apparent meaninglessness. 

And to my brother Mark (who can no longer communicate with me in any way I can discern)–thank you. Thank you for being a steady presence in my life. Thank you for being a model of living fiercely and fully. Thank you for caring deeply about me. I’ll do my best never to forget the time we spent together fly fishing in the shimmering pools below Turquoise Lake. Miss you keenly. Love you dearly, wherever you are (or aren’t).