The Next Big Adventure
The other day, a friend asked me if I ever think about death. I laughed. Then I told her that's like asking me if I breathe.
I think about death. A lot. I always have. I don't think I do it in a bizarre, macabre way. I mean, I don't think about ways to die (or ways to make others die). I'm not a weirdo. Well, not about this stuff, anyway. But the idea of death has always held a certain fascination for me. Give me a good murder mystery any day (I really think I was a homicide detective in previous life). And in nearly every piece of fiction I've ever written, someone dies. I learned early that, in writing, death equals drama and drama makes for good stories. The tragedy of a life cut short, the searing pain of loss... it's hard to look at... and it's hard to look away. I do so love my stories.
But I think about death a lot in my real life, too. Like many, I have dealt with loss since I was young. I watched people I loved deal with it, usually quite stoically, even before I understood what it meant. I've lost both my parents; I've lost relatives and friends and classmates; I've lost beloved pets. I've watched friends lose children and spouses, parents and siblings.
Life is full of loss; full of grief.
Recently I wrote a post about my daughter, and how, because of her bipolar disorder and depression, she thinks about death. She thinks about suicide. It breaks my heart... but it's her reality. She has promised me that she'll never do it while I'm alive because she would never want to hurt me in that way. Even that breaks my heart - that she's willing to live in pain to ease or prevent my own.
Several years ago, friends of mine lost their beautiful little girl to neuroblastoma - an aggressive childhood cancer. I saw their grief; I felt it; it was palpable, tangible, devastating.
Since I was young, I have done this thing where I try to put myself in others' shoes, to feel what they feel. When my dad was sick and couldn't breathe, I tried breathing through a small straw, to see what it felt like to be unable to get air. It was terrifying. To understand what my brother, who is deaf, goes through, I tried plugging my ears for a day and watching television with the sound off. Beyond frustrating. To understand a little bit of what it feels like to live in poverty, I made myself eat on just $1.50 per day for a period of time. I felt constantly desperate and anxious and hungry. Awful.
But back then, when my friends lost their daughter, I couldn't do it. I couldn't put myself in their shoes. I couldn't even imagine my child's death. I tried but even the thought of it was too painful to bear. I simply could not wrap my head or heart around what they must have been going through... what they still go through today.
But lately, because of my daughter's mental health struggles, I have forced myself to imagine it - the death of my child. I have forced myself to accept that one day, her pain might be too great for her to bear. I hope with everything I have in me that never happens, but it could. I know this. I've seen it happen to others. The imagining is incredibly painful. The reality would be beyond anything I have ever known. But still, I think about it.
I have learned to prepare for death. When my father was sick, I refused to accept that he was going to die so when he did, it knocked me flat. And I stayed that way for a very long time. Sometimes, in some ways, I think I'm still there. I never fully recovered. So I learned to prepare for the other losses that were inevitable... the aunts and uncles I adored, my mother's death. When you prepare yourself for it, it's still painful... but the pain is much more familiar.
And that makes it better somehow.
And I think about my own death often. Since I was a teenager, I have been certain that I will die of cancer. I don't know how or why I came to that conclusion, but I did. It didn't affect my life in any significant way; I didn't wait for a diagnosis or actively worry that it would happen. I wasn't afraid of it. But I was sure.
And then it did happen - the Diagnosis. And suddenly I was very scared. My fear wasn't for myself, though... it was for my daughter. I didn't want to leave her alone. Thankfully, my cancer is one that grows slowly and though it will never go away, my oncologist says it's most likely I'll die with it and not from it. But it also doesn't preclude or protect me from getting another version of that son-of-a-bitch disease. In fact, I know several people in my own little circle of friends who have dealt with (or are dealing with) a second cancer after beating a first.
I still believe I'll die from it.
And that doesn't scare me (though I'm not going to lie - after experiencing chemo a couple of times, the thought of that makes me shake in my boots a little).
I also admit to worrying that instead of cancer, the dementia that robbed my mother of her life might take me on as well. Now, that is a terrifying fate - one far worse than death. This I know for sure. So my daughter knows that if it happens and there is still no real treatment or cure, we will whisk me away to somewhere that assisted suicide is legal, and we will let me go - quickly, quietly, with no fanfare.
No, I'm not afraid of death. Mind you, I don't want to die... I still have a lot of living to do; I have a lot of places I want to see. And I want to be able to prepare - to plan my funeral, to say my good-byes, and clean my house (literally and figuratively). I don't want to die suddenly (or painfully, of course). But I'm not afraid.
And that's a bit weird, really, given how badly I've handled death in the past. But I maintain it's far more difficult to be the one left behind, attempting to fill the gaping hole ripped in the universe when a loved one dies; trying to find ways to ease the pain and face the sheer unfairness of it all.
Before my mother's dementia got the best of her, we had a conversation about dying. She told me she was afraid of it. I said I didn't understand that because she was a believer. Though not especially religious, she believed in God and Heaven and she was pretty sure she was going there. She also believed she was going to see my dad again. As such, I simply couldn't understand why she would be scared. I told her that I, as an atheist, should be the one with some concerns. Since I don't believe in any sort of god or redemption or Heaven as it's described in religion, you'd think I'd be a bit worried... or at least a bit miserable at the prospect of nothing.
But I'm not.
Maybe that's because I actually do believe there's a plane of existence beyond this one. I think there's enough evidence to support that. I don't know for sure, obviously (and I maintain not one of us does), but it's a cool idea.
J.R.R. Tolkien
Right after I was diagnosed, while I was still waiting to see exactly what brand of cancer I had and what sort of treatment was going to be necessary, I was in my local bagel shop, waiting for my order. I was thinking about all of it - the illness, the potential prognosis, my daughter. Then I heard the bell on the door to the shop ring and in the glass of the bagel case, I saw the reflection of the man who had walked in behind me. It was my dad. I hadn't even been thinking about him, but there he was, standing behind me. When I turned around, the man wasn't my dad (obviously). He didn't even look like him. Not one bit. But in that glass, I saw my father as clear as day. The very same thing happened again, three years later, just before my first chemo treatment, when I was scared out of my mind. In the reflection of a door, I saw my father. Again, I wasn't thinking of him and again, the man who was actually standing behind me looked nothing like him. But I saw him. There was no doubt in my mind or in my heart.
I fully accept that my anguished psyche could have been playing tricks on me both times but I like to think that maybe my dad lives on that alternate plane now - in Tolkien's far green country... popping in whenever he feels really needed.
I certainly hope that plane exists, I hope it's nicer than this place, and I hope the souls there took care of climate change and crooked politicians and litter and the calories in chocolate. I hope there's a whole new life after this one and we get to start fresh, after learning (finally) from our mistakes. It'd also be really cool if we could indeed check in on the people we love who are still here. At the very least, I hope there's a chance at reincarnation (though I have real doubts that there will be a world to come back to, given how we've screwed this one up).
J.K. Rowling said, "Death is just life's next big adventure." And maybe it's just the storyteller in me, but I want to believe it is... I want to believe it's just the start of something new. Regardless, the idea of it keeps fear at bay. And since you can't live if you spend your time being afraid of dying, I'd say that's a good thing.
I think about death. A lot. I always have. I don't think I do it in a bizarre, macabre way. I mean, I don't think about ways to die (or ways to make others die). I'm not a weirdo. Well, not about this stuff, anyway. But the idea of death has always held a certain fascination for me. Give me a good murder mystery any day (I really think I was a homicide detective in previous life). And in nearly every piece of fiction I've ever written, someone dies. I learned early that, in writing, death equals drama and drama makes for good stories. The tragedy of a life cut short, the searing pain of loss... it's hard to look at... and it's hard to look away. I do so love my stories.
But I think about death a lot in my real life, too. Like many, I have dealt with loss since I was young. I watched people I loved deal with it, usually quite stoically, even before I understood what it meant. I've lost both my parents; I've lost relatives and friends and classmates; I've lost beloved pets. I've watched friends lose children and spouses, parents and siblings.
Life is full of loss; full of grief.
Sometimes I think I've spent more than half my life grieving.
Recently I wrote a post about my daughter, and how, because of her bipolar disorder and depression, she thinks about death. She thinks about suicide. It breaks my heart... but it's her reality. She has promised me that she'll never do it while I'm alive because she would never want to hurt me in that way. Even that breaks my heart - that she's willing to live in pain to ease or prevent my own.
Several years ago, friends of mine lost their beautiful little girl to neuroblastoma - an aggressive childhood cancer. I saw their grief; I felt it; it was palpable, tangible, devastating.
Since I was young, I have done this thing where I try to put myself in others' shoes, to feel what they feel. When my dad was sick and couldn't breathe, I tried breathing through a small straw, to see what it felt like to be unable to get air. It was terrifying. To understand what my brother, who is deaf, goes through, I tried plugging my ears for a day and watching television with the sound off. Beyond frustrating. To understand a little bit of what it feels like to live in poverty, I made myself eat on just $1.50 per day for a period of time. I felt constantly desperate and anxious and hungry. Awful.
But back then, when my friends lost their daughter, I couldn't do it. I couldn't put myself in their shoes. I couldn't even imagine my child's death. I tried but even the thought of it was too painful to bear. I simply could not wrap my head or heart around what they must have been going through... what they still go through today.
That sort of grief never dies. This I know for sure.
But lately, because of my daughter's mental health struggles, I have forced myself to imagine it - the death of my child. I have forced myself to accept that one day, her pain might be too great for her to bear. I hope with everything I have in me that never happens, but it could. I know this. I've seen it happen to others. The imagining is incredibly painful. The reality would be beyond anything I have ever known. But still, I think about it.
I prepare myself.
I have learned to prepare for death. When my father was sick, I refused to accept that he was going to die so when he did, it knocked me flat. And I stayed that way for a very long time. Sometimes, in some ways, I think I'm still there. I never fully recovered. So I learned to prepare for the other losses that were inevitable... the aunts and uncles I adored, my mother's death. When you prepare yourself for it, it's still painful... but the pain is much more familiar.
And that makes it better somehow.
Just a little.
And I think about my own death often. Since I was a teenager, I have been certain that I will die of cancer. I don't know how or why I came to that conclusion, but I did. It didn't affect my life in any significant way; I didn't wait for a diagnosis or actively worry that it would happen. I wasn't afraid of it. But I was sure.
And then it did happen - the Diagnosis. And suddenly I was very scared. My fear wasn't for myself, though... it was for my daughter. I didn't want to leave her alone. Thankfully, my cancer is one that grows slowly and though it will never go away, my oncologist says it's most likely I'll die with it and not from it. But it also doesn't preclude or protect me from getting another version of that son-of-a-bitch disease. In fact, I know several people in my own little circle of friends who have dealt with (or are dealing with) a second cancer after beating a first.
I still believe I'll die from it.
And that doesn't scare me (though I'm not going to lie - after experiencing chemo a couple of times, the thought of that makes me shake in my boots a little).
I also admit to worrying that instead of cancer, the dementia that robbed my mother of her life might take me on as well. Now, that is a terrifying fate - one far worse than death. This I know for sure. So my daughter knows that if it happens and there is still no real treatment or cure, we will whisk me away to somewhere that assisted suicide is legal, and we will let me go - quickly, quietly, with no fanfare.
No, I'm not afraid of death. Mind you, I don't want to die... I still have a lot of living to do; I have a lot of places I want to see. And I want to be able to prepare - to plan my funeral, to say my good-byes, and clean my house (literally and figuratively). I don't want to die suddenly (or painfully, of course). But I'm not afraid.
And that's a bit weird, really, given how badly I've handled death in the past. But I maintain it's far more difficult to be the one left behind, attempting to fill the gaping hole ripped in the universe when a loved one dies; trying to find ways to ease the pain and face the sheer unfairness of it all.
Life is nothing if not unfair.
Before my mother's dementia got the best of her, we had a conversation about dying. She told me she was afraid of it. I said I didn't understand that because she was a believer. Though not especially religious, she believed in God and Heaven and she was pretty sure she was going there. She also believed she was going to see my dad again. As such, I simply couldn't understand why she would be scared. I told her that I, as an atheist, should be the one with some concerns. Since I don't believe in any sort of god or redemption or Heaven as it's described in religion, you'd think I'd be a bit worried... or at least a bit miserable at the prospect of nothing.
But I'm not.
Maybe that's because I actually do believe there's a plane of existence beyond this one. I think there's enough evidence to support that. I don't know for sure, obviously (and I maintain not one of us does), but it's a cool idea.
J.R.R. Tolkien I fully accept that my anguished psyche could have been playing tricks on me both times but I like to think that maybe my dad lives on that alternate plane now - in Tolkien's far green country... popping in whenever he feels really needed.
I certainly hope that plane exists, I hope it's nicer than this place, and I hope the souls there took care of climate change and crooked politicians and litter and the calories in chocolate. I hope there's a whole new life after this one and we get to start fresh, after learning (finally) from our mistakes. It'd also be really cool if we could indeed check in on the people we love who are still here. At the very least, I hope there's a chance at reincarnation (though I have real doubts that there will be a world to come back to, given how we've screwed this one up).
J.K. Rowling said, "Death is just life's next big adventure." And maybe it's just the storyteller in me, but I want to believe it is... I want to believe it's just the start of something new. Regardless, the idea of it keeps fear at bay. And since you can't live if you spend your time being afraid of dying, I'd say that's a good thing.
XO,
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