Death Terrifies Me

(Note: This blog post also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site as "Death Terrifies Me: Too Many Questions, and Not Enough Answers.")


Death terrifies me.

I'm sure it's because I'm getting older, but recently I've started thinking more and more about death. I'm 54 years old as I type this, which is, I'm reasonably sure, several years beyond the halfway point of my life. (I think it's a pretty safe bet that I'm not going to live to be 108.) And while death has never been a comfortable subject for me, lately that discomfort has intensified.

There are so many triggers in my world these days that make me stop and think about just how damn old I am. Business executives look like they're teenagers. Star athletes are younger than my kids. Records I used to listen to as a high school student are turning 40. Etc.

Over the summer, my wife and I had to buy a new washer and dryer. Not to sound morbid or anything, but I started wondering: Is this the last washer and dryer I'll ever buy? The same thing went through my head when we bought a new mattress, too. All of a sudden I'm doing a lot of math in my head, and all of the story problems contain the number 54.

"Dean bought a new washing machine when he was 54. If the average lifespan of a washing machine is 14 years, will Dean ever have to buy another washing machine? Show your work."

I can't help it. That’s how I think. I know that age is just a number, and 54 isn't really that old (is it??). I mean, in my head I still feel like I’m 18, and I feel pretty damn good physically, too. So why worry?

I worry because death is the ultimate unknown for me. Nobody knows what happens when we die, and that uncertainty scares me. When you die, do you stop feeling everything? Or does your soul live on, allowing you to observe and feel stuff going on in the mortal world? Do you really go off to heaven or hell, depending on what kind of life you lived? Or do you reincarnate and come back to earth as a cat or some kid who's just being born?

Too many questions. Not enough answers.

I also worry about how my two boys will fare when their aging parents are dead and gone. I know that since my own father passed away almost three years ago, I find myself missing him more than I ever thought I would. My dad and I didn't even get along for most of my life, and I still miss him. I oftentimes wish I could call him and ask him questions when I have to fix something with the tools he left me. And when some crazy play happens in a football game I'm watching on TV, I still kind of expect the phone to ring and my dad to be on the other end asking me, “Did you see that?!” Because that's what he did.

Last month, I had to be put under general anesthesia when I went into the hospital for a procedure on my heart. Twenty years ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. But now? I have to admit, there was a voice in my head telling me, "Hey, some people go under and never come out of it. Good luck." (On the other hand, maybe that wonderful feeling you have while being put to sleep by the anesthesiologist is exactly what death feels like. How awesome would that be?)

So I've decided I’m going to start reading some books about death. I'm going to start with Elisabeth Kübler-Ross's seminal book, On Death and Dying, and move on from there. I hope to read scientific books, spiritual books, and even books by or about people who saw the white light and maybe had a talk with God before returning to life.

What I hope to accomplish is simple: I want to become more comfortable with the idea of death. I want to get to a point where I'm (reasonably) okay with dying. Obviously, I don't want to rush things, but as I get closer and closer to that day, I don't want to be terrified. I want to be able to accept it.

I've wanted to write about my fear of death for quite some time. I wasn't planning on doing it today, but this morning I woke up and saw a post my oldest son--who has been struggling lately--made on Facebook last night. It was a video for John Mayer's song "Stop This Train," and it included the lyrics. One of the verses goes:

"Don’t know how else to say it
I don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own."

When I read those words, I knew I had to write this blog post today.

My father was the first person I ever watched die. I was at his bedside when he took his last breath at age 86. My mother may be one of the healthiest people on this planet, but she’s almost 85 now. And my wife's parents are in their "sunset years," too. Yes, death is inevitable, which makes it hard not to think about it. I just don’t want to be scared when I do.

"Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome." --Isaac Asimov 
 
(Note: “Stop This Train” lyrics © 2006 by John Mayer/SONY/ATV Music Publishing LLC)

I'm Not as Strong as I Sometimes Appear

I haven't put much thought into this post. So if what I'm writing ends up sounding like some kind of stream of consciousness rambling, I apologize.

One thing I've heard a lot from people over the last couple/few years is how strong I am. How I've gone through difficult things in my life but have handled it so well.

Here's a secret: I'm not as strong as I sometimes appear. In fact, I'm really not that strong at all.

I've been going through some tough times of late. I haven't written about them because I just don't want to. But over the last several weeks I've come to view myself as something of a hypocrite, because I can't seem to practice what I preach.

I write blogs that tell people how they should act. Live in the moment. Don't let the small stuff bother you. Practice self-care. But recently I've done anything but those things. Instead, I've let the shit going on in my world get the best of me.

Yesterday, while my wife was out of town, I honestly thought I was going to have a breakdown. I confess: I served my younger son his dinner with tears rolling down my cheeks.

Today? More of the same: stress, anxiety, fear, and lots of self-loathing.

I'm kind of a mess.

Maybe it's some kind of reaction to my being completely off of Klonopin now. (It's been a little less than a week.) I've also reduced the dosage of my anti-depressant--with my doctor's permission--so maybe my body and brain are adjusting to that, too. I'll give it another week or so and see how things are going then.

But the main point of this post is to come clean and let you know that I'm not this pillar of strength with a big shield that allows me to repel all the troubles and negative feelings that come my way. Not even close. I'm just as vulnerable as anybody else; at times, maybe even more so. I still carry around a lot of baggage, and sometimes the weight of that baggage puts a tremendous strain on me.

I know that it's okay to hurt. I know that it's okay to cry. I know that this, too, shall pass. But that doesn't make it any easier.

Namaste.

"If you have a body, you are entitled to the full range of feelings. It comes with the package." --Anne Lamott