Only one way out
My mother started dying at 36. It was at 36 that she started talking about “When I’m gone…” and telling me where the important papers were, what the arrangements were for my brother and me in terms of guardians (my least favorite aunt and uncle, unless I was 18, in which case, I would be my brother’s keeper—legally), and who should get what in terms of family jewelry and other valuables.
In the intervening 20 years, she has kept me updated as they’ve moved as to where the stuff is, who should NOT get what (my brother’s wife, now ex-wife, under no circumstances should get any of the family jewelry), and I’m pretty sure I’m no longer in danger of being appointed my 31-year-old brother’s guardian. “When I’m dead…” has started more sentences leaving my mother’s lips than I could ever count. I never cared for the discussion, and usually changed the subject. I didn’t want to think about her not being here, or the division of her stuff.
When I was back north for the wedding, a month out from A’s passing, my mother made some remarks about people dying that I felt were really cold and insensitive to me and my situation. Granted, she doesn’t fully understand my loss, because I didn’t share the full extent of the relationship with her. It hardly seemed prudent. She’d probably disown me again, and we’ve been doing so well.
But at 5 months and a few days out, I don’t really think her remarks are cold anymore. They’re accurate. And I feel the same way. Death is a fact. And perhaps by the time you hit 35, you’ve probably lost someone dear to you, and have no option but to recognize the truth of something you knew was true, but didn’t care to acknowledge, as if you would jinx yourself, as if you somehow could avoid mortality by not speaking of it. My mother lost her own mother the year she turned 35, and had lost her sister 5 years beforehand.
It wasn’t her fault she was morbid. She told me her own mother also started dying at 36, (although she took another 36 years to do it), and that they had had similar conversations. My grandmother had lost both parents at a young age, and ultimately lost her husband and her daughter, too. However, never in a million years did I think I’d start dying at 35, but sure enough, I have continued the tradition. I have spent time putting our affairs largely in order, with instructions, so that if I go suddenly, E will be able to find the bills and pay them. I’ve been giving him offhand guidance as to what to do with my stuff once I’m gone. I’m certain that he’s really impressed by this kind of talk, as much as I was when my mother did it. But it seems important to talk about. I pretended like it would never happen, not for a long time anyway, with A, and since he passed there are many things I wished we would’ve talked about regarding what would happen if one of us died. It would’ve made some things, practical things, easier now than they’ve turned out, things that might’ve eased some unnecessary emotional pain when there was a surfeit of the inevitable kind anyway.
So I’m talking about it now, because I’m dying. I’ve been dying since the day I was born. I am already dead, if you want to get really Zen. It is an inescapable reality I choose to embrace now, having been forced to deal with it against my will when A died. I don’t find this morbid. I find it freeing. I’m already dead. So anything I do between now and the moment I actually take my last breath is gravy, non? It’s like my senior year in high school—I had all but a few of my credits done by the end of my junior year. So with all this free time, I loaded up on electives. I took extra English classes, a photography class, and Russian. Why? Because I was already graduated, so why not make the most of the free education while I could?
The education we get in this life is not free, although we rarely write a check for it. It costs us dearly, in debits of heart, and soul, and peace of mind, but sometimes you invest wisely and reap great dividends. I’m going to get as much out of this life as I can. I cannot assume a tomorrow anymore. That doesn’t mean I have this huge list of things I must accomplish before I die. Quite the opposite; I have narrowed my priorities and jettisoned a lot of crap, burned away in the fires of grief. If I were to find out I was going to die tomorrow, what would I do? Would I try to get on a plane to see the pyramids? Would I spend all my money? Would I rent Carnegie Hall and put on one last gig? Nah. I’d do exactly what I do every day: Play my guitar, write and make stuff, love my loved ones, and go to sleep. These are the things that are important to me, and the rest is just extra, nice but not vital. I read a book recently that said the extent to which we fear dying is the extent to which we fear living. I don’t fear death anymore. I don’t fear life, either. My only job here is to live until I don’t anymore. The pressure’s off. So I got that going for me, which is nice.