August 14, 2014
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l'appel du vide
I'll worship like a dog
in the shrine of your lies.- Hozier, Take Me To Church
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I don't know when I first learned about death.
I wonder if it was from TV or a movie. I wonder if I watched something not targeted to my age range, and learned about death when the main antagonist was defeated. I wonder if when he closed his eyes, I understood that they would stay closed forever. I wonder if was from the many cats that we had in my family when I was a child. I wonder if a kitten died and my parents struggled to explain the natural phenomena to me. I wonder if I knew of death before or after my maternal grandfather's funeral, where my mom threw herself upon her father's casket, hysterical in tears.
In either case, I was aware by five years of age that someday, everyone dies.
My first memory of conceptualizing death takes place in my parents' bedroom. They, and the rest of my family, were in the living room watching the television together. I don't remember why I was in my parents' bed, but there I was, between the sheets. It was the middle of the evening, and I was lying quietly in the dark. I held my breath, and imagined myself no longer breathing. I closed my eyes and imagined how someday, this darkness will be forever. I imagined my mom being gone forever. My dad. That they would have to endure this darkness. Then someday, me. I was suddenly terrified, consumed by a fear of death. Someday, I will die. I became overwhelmed by tears. I was a five-year-old girl rocking in my parents' bed, weeping, "I don't want to die, I don't want to die!"
My first memory of death is as a little girl, begging not to die.
I am currently at the generous age of 23 -- an age in a life where Death is still relatively kind to me. I've lost less than a handful of friends, although the people around me have lost loved ones. Both of my parents are still earthbound. Death has flirted with me, but has not afflicted me.
In these past two weeks, Death made its presence known to me three times. The first was my battle with the suicide note in my text inbox. The second is something that impacted millions -- I've never been emotionally affected by a celebrity death before, but I truly mourned the suicide of Robin Williams. Then the third -- my co-worker has been fighting cancer since before I started at my job. He is being taken off life support today. It might even be as I write this. I'm not at work today, because I'm getting on a plane to Portland in the early evening. I just know that when I come back to work on Monday, he will have passed away.
I would share my emotional turmoil, but I still need to pack my bags. My boarding pass to Portland is a sobering reminder to seize life while I have it. There is so much of the world that I haven't seen -- how much of it will I be able to see before my last breath?
I think a lot about my eventual death. I think a lot about the last thing I'll see, or think, or feel. Will I be afraid, or will I realize acceptance? Will my final gasp be spent on a softly whispered, "I love you," or on a helpless scream?
I would think I'm going through my quarter-life crisis, but who knows if it's actually my midlife crisis, or my 90%? Or, on the other hand, technology advances the human lifespan significantly during my lifetime, and I'm actually just a mere 5% done? One can laugh and dream, but really -- who knows?
Death placed a hand on my shoulder. I am stricken. Yet somehow, life goes on.