The ‘I’ in Death
If I could give you real answers about death, I would not have to write this essay now, would I? That said, I welcome you to read through my chaotic interpretation of death, what it means to me, and how it helps me find meaning in life. When I think about death, I think about birth as well. When I think about them both, I immediately jump to a before and after aspect to my existence. Then this Vietnamese proverb comes and smacks me in the head.
“People say that time goes by; time says that the people go by.”
As I recover from the whiplash, I realise birth and death are just measures of a life created and lost. Then I give in to a dreamless slumber, lulled by this comfortable thought, “I am simply practicing for death when it comes.”
I often wonder why we don’t contemplate the birth question. Where do we come from? None of us really know where we come from and where we will ultimately go (yet). Why then do we have entire cultures, civilisations and societies built around romanticising birth and death?
Birth is presumed to be the gift of existence. You live your life. You add value to the world. Then you die only to be thrust into an afterlife, a rebirth, or you achieve enlightenment. The death question is also given this dreamlike or nightmarish surety. You die and you go here (if you lived like this). Where do we go?
Let’s be honest. Nobody really knows, right? I think, like the simpleton that I am, we all come to this party called life at birth and then we stumble out of it, naturally or otherwise at death. Some say we come back. Some say we live eternally somewhere. Others say we just become one with creation. I say, maybe someday, we will know whether we are the mythical phoenix or just a lovely birdlike entity viewed by someone with a vivid imagination.
The Aztecs are historically credited for sustaining reality by sacrifice, death. Feed Huitzilopochtli human hearts and blood, and he will have the energy to fight against the ongoing war of darkness (Cartwright, 2018). This aspect of tying reality to death fascinates me (the act of human sacrifice does not). Death, like birth, is the realest real ever gets. We all die. Think of all the people you have learned from. Thinkers. Artists. Philosophers. Scientists. Theologians. Et al. Most of them are dead. Think of evolution. We evolve because of death. To make us harder to kill, nature changes our physiology, little by little, one death at a time. Death is so phenomenally fundamental to the human existence and yet we are so afraid of the word and what it represents, most of us don’t talk about it in depth.
We don’t talk about death but we should. My grandmother is dead now. Her death impacted me a lot. The family knew she was dying. I so desperately wanted to tell her how much she meant to me. I presumed, in my ingénue ways how she needs her strength to stay alive. If I delivered my farewell, I lose hope and we can’t lose hope when someone is definitely dying. I couldn’t tell her anything real. I didn’t tell her anything real. In retrospect, I wish I fought for a better death for her. I wish I told her everything and have her do what she loved most — sing. Instead, I chose to be selfish. I held onto this hope and this guilt. I focused on the I. As a consequence, she died a bad death, in a diabetic coma, alone, because we were sent out to allow her to leave. Jeffrey Cranor’s words ring true when he says, “Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.”
The I in death. Death needs to be humanised and talked about. There is positivity in death, right? It signifies the end of suffering. Death can be satisfying. Take someone suffering from a terminal illness. Take someone who doesn’t want to exist anymore. They are fighting against something they don’t want to challenge anymore. Death can be emotional. You lose a person you loved and their death brings you immense sorrow. Death can be unfair. Like truth, death doesn’t care. It comes when it does. We all die. We are just so painfully awkward around death. Even academia is so uncomfortable about contemplating death. Funnily enough, we all talk about things that make us sad. Why then do we make this exception for death?
In my naïve ways, I think death can be viewed as an incentive in life. Deaths are physiological. They can also be metaphorical. Many people physically die after being not-emotionally-alive for a long time. This illusion of control we have regarding death — if we don’t talk about it, it will figure itself out; this is baffling. When you die, you will be buried/burned/donated/turned into a plant/ et al. When I die, I will rot in some lab. Ultimately, we are all just energy. We are matter with energy. Once we die, we become matter with different energy. In contemplating death, I found a way to cope with my grief (and guilt). Energy changes from one form to another all the time. In having this realisation, whenever I think about my grandmother now, I tell her I love her. I tell her I miss her. I sing some weird song (because she loved weird songs). I tell her whatever I want whenever I need to. I am sure she hears it all.
What a pivot, right? Let me clarify. I don’t believe in afterlife and all that jazz. For starters, living our finite existence fearing the consequences of an infinite, eternal life doesn’t make logical sense to me. It also scares me because the thought of my consciousness continuing into eternity sounds exhausting. I happen to think the afterlife is simply a manifestation of the shared human experience of the fear of death. We are all aware of death and yet most of us are unwilling to accept this reality. See, I know I am destined to die and therefore become a memory. If I succeed a little bit as a writer in my puny existence, I might become an idea. I accepted my birth. I accept my death. Fearing death became pointless. Thinking about death though isn’t. In fact, it is oddly freeing. Thus, what I am saying is come up with your own little version of what happens after.
Theories are amazing, aren’t they? They are great at diverting our attention to the human experience (and inexperience) to gain a better understanding of our world. I don’t just mean scientific or cultural theories. I mean the uncomfortable stuff as well. Science is comforting because it dissuades philosophical thought. Culture is comforting because we all seem to have a cultural agreement to not talk about death in any real way. I tried the comfort and the discomfort. They were both enlightening experiences. In essence, I think it is about belonging somewhere. If I don’t feel at home in my own world, thoughts, ideas, and people, the meaning and impact of my death becomes scary. If I continue to live this life where I don’t fit in anywhere, don’t I lose meaning in existence way before actually dying?
I am reminded of Rilke’s words as I close this essay, “…the death of unlived life.”
So many of us just die on the inside. Someday, we just stop doing the things we want to do and start doing the things we are supposed to do. The Coronavirus pandemic highlighted this for so many of us. At some point, we stopped taking leaps of faith in life and simply chose to settle for the conventional job, life and thought. I am not a preacher but I will give it a shot, just this once. Life has no meaning…but it isn’t meaningless. You can infuse meaning into your existence. This buffet of limitless opportunities and possibilities is stifling. I am a writer. If writers become obsolete tomorrow, what will I do? I don’t know. I do know what I wouldn’t do — I will not limit myself to some social caricature. In doing so, my death will represent my life.
I hope you enjoyed my chaotic rendering of death and what it means to me. Like most things about my existence, this essay was about me, my thoughts and my opinions. Let me know whether you found some order in this chaos.
Works Cited
Cartwright, M. (2018, May 3). Aztec Sacrifice. Retrieved from World History Encyclopedia : https://www.worldhistory.org/Aztec_Sacrifice/
