Marching away
Yesterday I attended what was probably one of the most humbling services I’ve been to in my 24 year lifespan. It was a funeral visitation for someone I knew; mostly through his mother, but there were a few occasions in which I spent time with him.
His name was Ben Fifer. He was 25.
This post isn’t necessarily an entry about all of the memories I have had of him because, well, I didn’t have many. Therein lies the problem. I could go on for a few paragraphs about my personal experiences I had with him and fully exhaust my memories I have of him. His mother has shared many of his life stories with me, kept me up to date about what he was doing in the military, what he did for his hobbies, etc. But I was never given fair time to partake in any of those activities with Ben.
It doesn’t take much to understand how hard a funeral for such a young person can be. Ben was sick for months, but that still doesn’t help ease any pain. As I walked into that visitation room, I quickly realized that it was going to be fairly hard to keep any composure I was holding.
Here was a very serene, at peace, Ben, in an open casket, pictures adorning him, family at his side… But that wasn’t the hardest part. It was seeing how personal everything around him was, and how incredibly touching it was to see his homemade Mandalorian helmet, armor, and weapons that he put so much time and effort into making laying next to him and around the room. His modified Nerf gun laying next to a portable DVD player which was halfway through “A New Hope…” If you couldn’t tell already from this paragraph, Ben was quite the fan of Star Wars. And, much like myself, he was very much in love with the Mandalorian faction and Boba Fett, which also was my favorite character from the first trilogy.
As I neared his family, and embraced his mother, we talked for a few moments about the Star Wars decor around the room. Then she asked me if I saw the Boba Fett action figure he had with him in his casket. To which I replied, no, I hadn’t. I hadn’t gotten very close to the casket, because not only did I feel that I didn’t really have a lot of room to say anything to him in respects because of the short time I had with him, but I can’t really handle funerals that well anyways, and for someone who was so close in age to me, and so close in brainwave activity… But I went to him, led by his mother, and saw the action figure in his pocket. Saw his Star Wars Celebration T-shirt he was wearing.
And I pretty much lost it.
I hated myself for it.
Not because of my pride (I tend to tear up more than most other men I know). But because here was a person that was so familiar to me. I understood who he was, because of just one bond we shared together. I saw pictures on his Facebook account before the funeral of him at the Star Wars Celebration events decked out in armor and costumes, and that was the one moment that we had shared together. Not at Celebration, but at a much smaller event at the library where I work: I was dressed as a Jedi, he was dressed as a Mando. I don’t know what it is about fandoms that brings people together in this odd manner, but it’s really cool, yet hard at the same time. I feel bad because I feel this connection with Ben, but I don’t even want to fathom placing whatever friendship I had with him on the same tier as other friends he really knew. We had talked about hanging out together; he was going to teach me how to make Mandalorian armor, and just have general geeking-out times. I guess God didn’t have plans for those times with us, and I’m fine with that. But I can’t help but think, what if we started hanging out right after that event we shared together? What if I took that short amount of time I was given to get to know this person better?
My only regret lies there. I wish I had gotten to know him sooner. He was a really nice and fun person to be around, all Star Wars things aside. It’s not the fandom that makes the friendship, it’s the fan.
What’s harder: losing someone you knew so well and can live a life retelling all of the memories and stories about, or losing someone in which you knew there was potential, but it was never followed up on?
Ben is in a better place now, that’s for sure. I’m happy for him, so happy he isn’t suffering anymore. However, closure is a myth. And I don’t think I’m ever going to forget seeing Ben that last time, with his prized Mandalorian helmet, which pretty much defined who he was to me, sitting beside him.
I don’t think Ben would have his visitation any other way.
In any case, I’m looking forward to getting to know him better in heaven. There’s always life in Him.
Rest in peace, Ben Fifer.
May 31, 2011 at 6:11 PM
fantastic snapshot of what you experienced/knew/felt with ben. thank you, you are somehow able to put into words what i cannot.
June 2, 2011 at 12:16 AM
I have a funny feeling you knew him better than most, so while I doubt my words here can really hit home to you, his own sister, I feel very privileged that you chose to comment on this entry. While I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a sibling, I can understand the extent of what your sorrow must be. When I saw you at his wake and funeral, you seemed… I don’t know what the right word is, but “strong” can suffice for now. I felt the same vibe from your mother. It was, however odd this may sound, refreshing to see her able to talk about Ben’s passing with me at work when she came back last week, and how it still seems unreal, and she didn’t dissolve into a sobbing mess while speaking about it. I’m sure that she has shed her fair share of tears, as I’m sure you have, but Gandalf said it best; not all tears are an evil.
I think about Ben almost every day, and I pray frequently for you, your parents, your brother, everyone in your family that has gone through this. I’m sure you’re probably heard every line in the book, and it’s probably silly coming from me (someone you don’t really even know), but I know that Ben is smiling down on you and your family, and is hearing your prayers as well. That’s where the real comfort lies.