A few months back, I found myself at Universal Studios with my husband, my sisters, and my brother-in-law. We were enjoying a much-needed vacation, kid-free, indulging in rides, junk food, and playful banter with strangers. One evening, amidst the laughter, the topic of death came up. I brought up that eerie sensation when you’re going about your day, and suddenly, the thought hits you: you’re going to die one day. You know, that moment when your mind goes into a panic, and you can almost feel death’s icy grip creeping in? Anyone else experience this? Just me? Oh, great.
About once a week—sometimes more—I’m jolted by the realization of my mortality, and it sends my heart racing. Maybe it’s just a reminder of the inevitable? Our bodies can be quite the adversaries. Then the thought hits me again: not only will I die, but so will everyone I care about. A lump forms in my throat, and an uncomfortable heat rises within me. I become acutely aware that once those who knew me are gone, my existence fades along with them. Cemeteries worldwide are filled with the graves of forgotten souls, and that fate awaits us all.
Then, I spiral into a mild panic until I can distract myself, often with a catchy tune—like Beyoncé. No one will forget her. She’s destined to be immortalized in the hearts of future generations. Talk about luck.
I don’t suffer from any illness that suggests my end is near. Most of my family tends to live long enough to say outrageous things without anyone batting an eye, which is reassuring. Still, I become hyper-aware of death in certain scenarios. Let’s just say I’m the life of the party on flights. As soon as I board, I buckle my seatbelt and refuse to unfasten it until we’re safely back on solid ground. I might indulge in a drink, but then I’d have to use the restroom. My irrational fears lead me to believe that if the plane crashes, it would happen while I’m in the bathroom, causing chaos. I can’t think of a worse way to go than plummeting 35,000 feet with my fear-induced mishap.
While the thought of death is daunting, it’s the uncertainty of what follows that truly sends my anxiety levels soaring. When my partner and I created our wills, he was surprisingly calm about it, ready to donate his body to science. To him, it makes sense—helping others and being resourceful. My rational mind agrees, but then my irrational thoughts kick in. Should I just donate my organs and be cremated? At least my ashes could be scattered on a beautiful beach or kept in a chic urn. But what if my family picks an ugly urn? Or what if my ashes never get visited? Perhaps they’d end up at a yard sale, tossed aside like yesterday’s leftovers.
Soon, my mind spirals, and I consider getting my brain frozen in a cryogenic facility. In my fantasy, I win the lottery and stipulate in my will that any heirs must visit my final resting spot regularly. Perhaps a scandal might help me become infamous in death. After all, they say no press is bad press if it means you’re remembered forever.
The process of making a will is surprisingly entertaining, if not a bit grim. Seriously, though—having a will is essential.
Fretting about death is likely a constant for me until my last moment. It’s a somber thought, but as I don’t foresee my logical side overpowering my anxious tendencies, at least I can find comfort in knowing that if I live a long life, I’ll be somewhat prepared.
In summary, grappling with the concept of mortality can lead to intense anxiety, but it also highlights the importance of cherishing life and making plans for the future. Engaging in discussions about death doesn’t have to be morbid; it can remind us to live fully and meaningfully.