How do I come to terms with mortality?
Raise your hand if you’ve had anxiety since you were a kid and you didn’t know why.
It took a year and a half in therapy for me to realize that a majority of my anxiety was actually related to my fear of death, both my own and the people around me. At one point, I thought the fear of something happening to me or my parents was so severe it would stop me from moving out of my childhood home and living on my own. Luckily, I’ve managed to create a fulfilling life just across the Hudson River from my parents, so safe to say the separation anxiety has subsided. But then, this past summer, my dad had a heart attack. It was minor, evidently, but it was still a heart attack and I was still scared as fuck.
Afterwards, I searched for stability wherever I could find it. My desire to be home and with people that felt like home increased. I started to reconsider my work environment and immediately wanted to eliminate anything else that could cause anxiety. I also saw the roles between my parents and myself reverse. I called my mom and dad daily. I tried to convince my dad he should be home by 7pm. I yelled at him if I saw him picking up heavy things. And I ordered him a Swell bottle in hopes it would help him stay hydrated. The child had become the parent—to the extent that I could.
In the past, when I’ve thought about death, I’ve always thought about the emotions that come with it, not about the logistics. I was so focused on how I would be able to go on with my own life — at work, as a friend — that I never stopped to consider the responsibility. But this recent experience changed my perspective.
I’m a writer, so my family would want me to write the eulogy, right? Would I make jokes? Would I be able to get through it without crying? What other decisions would I have to make while I’m simultaneously grieving?
I’ve learned that death is more than just tears and sadness and missing someone. It’s cleaning out their closet, paying hospital bills, and refusing to unfollow their Instagram account even though they’re no longer alive. It’s making decisions about an open casket or cremation and listening to old voicemails just to hear their voice again.
When my best friend died in college, I attempted to give meaning to her death. Losing her encouraged me to pursue my dreams of dancing, to not be so hard on myself, to appreciate every day as if it’s my last — all things that are easier said than done. But I really think I just told myself that to make myself feel better. Now that I’m older, I realize that there may not always be a way to accept someone’s death. The week that my dad had a heart attack, my best friend lost her uncle to one. I would probably lose sleep if I tried to come up with an answer as to why my dad survived his, but her uncle didn’t.
This certainly doesn’t mean that I’ll ever stop being afraid of death or that I’ll come to terms with it or even know how I’m going to react when I experience it. But if life goes on for everybody else when someone dies, why shouldn’t it for you?
