Death 1

Death, and how not to deal with it.

Most authors start their book with a prologue; I, however, am going to start with a disclaimer. I am not a therapist, nor do I claim to be one. The following is my experience and how I dealt with it. It may work for you, and if it does; great. If not, you can't say I didn't warn you. This was originally a way to vent my feelings about death. I hope you find some answers in my ramblings.


Chapter One
Introduction to Mortality

My first run in with existential death anxiety was when I was around 8 or 9. I remember asking my mother: "Mommy, am I going to die?"... I recall the troubled expression on her face, and her taking time to formulate her answer. It couldn't have been easy to confirm a child's anxiety about mortality, but lying would have been worse. Cautiously, she nodded and spoke softly: "Yes, sweetie. Everyone does..", and that's all I can remember, other than breaking down into tears. That was my first taste of this anxiety of the inevitable; It burns like fire, and yet is chilling to the core. It is a dread without explanation, or without a solid comfort.

I don't remember exactly what brought this fear on. I recall that some family members died around that time, and I remember asking mom if she was going to die. Of course, she responded with "Hopefully not any time soon!", Which confused me as a child. It wasn't a yes, per se, but... It wasn't a no, either. I feared constantly that I would wake up and she would be dead, or my father would be dead, or my sisters or my grandparents, but I never really considered my own mortality until that moment. In alot of ways, I feel like my life really began the day I heard of death. That is one of the first clear memories I have. Maybe it's why the anxiety is so prevalent now, in my adult life, or maybe the two aren't connected. Either way, that day, when I was a kid, was the beginning.

I should interrupt here to tell you a short side story, that will help the rest of this make sense. I was adopted at birth; My adoptive mother worked at the hospital in which I was born, and my biological mother didn't want me. My biological father was told I was aborted and would not know of my existence until I turned 18. This is important for later, so keep that in mind.

Fast forward a few years to my next episode. My nana, my grandma on my mother's side, is dying of lung cancer. I'm staying in their house, which is next to mine, because we know the end is near.  Mom and papa were in the room with her most of the last night she was alive, and I remember talking to her the day before, while she sat in her bed. She was out of it, on morphine for the pain the cancer was causing, but she was coherent enough to talk a bit. She requested a BLT, a cigarette, and some coffee, which was given to her. She ate a few bites of the sandwich, (Papa spoon fed it to her, almost in tears), took a couple of weak drags off the cigarette, and finally took a couple sips of coffee. She laid down to sleep, told us she loved us, and that was the last time I ever heard her voice.

I laid in the guest bedroom of their house that night, staring into the darkness. I was overwhelmed with sadness and grief at the sight of my dying grandmother, But I also found myself thinking of my own future. How would I die? Would it be slow like her? Or would I die a painful, scary death? What happens when you die? What does it feel like? Does it hurt? Will I die alone??

Will I be forgotten?

Those thoughts pummeled me into the night until I had an anxiety attack and cried myself to sleep. I woke up the next day to my mother beside my bed, telling me that it's time, and if I want to see her one last time to say goodbye, I need to do it now.
I got up and got dressed, and walked into her room to see her lying flat on her back, taking wet, rattling breaths that sounded laboured and unpleasant. Her eyes were closed but I couldn't believe she was asleep. I had never seen anyone die before, but this was as gentle of a first time as I could have asked for.

 For the next few hours, her family slowly filled the room. We sang to her and held her hands, papa talked to her like he was talking to a blushing bride at the altar. He sobbed to her. He doesn't cry, ever. That is the only time I've ever seen him cry like that, ever. Her sister talked about childhood antics, we laughed, and cried, and sang, and sat in silence, all while she slowly passed away.

And then she was gone.

I didn't cry then. The hearse came, and mom helped them get her into it. I didn't cry then, either. I sat outside with the family, talking and sharing stories, trying to make the best of a bad situation. Being religious, we knew that she wasn't in pain anymore and that she was in a better place, which gave us peace and solace. Slowly, later that afternoon, everyone left and went home, and so did I. Mama offered to stay with papa but he refused, in typical papa fashion. He said later that, that night, he swore he heard her call for him. He got up and rushed to her room, and broke down into tears.


The next few days were a blur, but I remember the funeral well.
 I didn't really cry until the funeral, when I saw her in the casket for the first time. It was mom, papa, and me at the casket. She looked at peace, calm and.. asleep, almost. She had makeup on, and was dressed well. Her hair stayed in a perm, even until her last days, so that looked the same. Papa cried first, then Mom, and then, finally, me. I don't remember why seeing her like that hurt so bad, but it did. Maybe because I knew this was really the end, or maybe it just took that long to hit me.

The rest of the funeral was typical. There were flowers and gifts, food and family. At the cemetery, I helped lower her into the ground. I don't know if it was closure, or if I just needed to be involved, but it made me feel better, somehow. Once again, family stood around, spoke and laughed, told stories, and eventually went home.

Things were quiet at my house for a while. Mom dealt with the death the best she could, with an increasingly distant husband not helping her much. My sisters took it hard, but I had a different issue on my mind.

You guessed it.

What will happen when I die, and all the same questions from before flooded through my mind. That cold anxiety hit me again, and I was filled with dread. I couldn't grieve my own grandmother for my own death anxiety, and while that sounds harsh, I had no say in the matter. It stole my grief and replaced it with selfish anxiety about my own mortality, and I realize now that it hurt me more than I realized.