HURRY. GOING FAST!!!!!
I’ve got 10,220 days left on the planet.
That’s assuming, of course, that I live till 80. If I shuffle off this mortal coil at the biblical three score years and ten, then this figure is further reduced.
Either way, it’s not long.
And this numerical memento mori got me thinking about my death. (As is their purpose, of course.)
In youth, death is an abstract concept. We know of course that it is out there, but so distant as to be more of a dim reaper than a grim one.
But that’s the thing about Lord Death. He is a quietly persistent stalker. Rather like the villainous entity in the horror film ‘it follows’ he is content to pursue you at a slow, unhurried walk, content in the knowledge of his ultimate victory.
Now I’m 52, I find myself uncomfortably aware that he has gone from being in the background to being a somewhat prominent feature, if not yet in the foreground, then most certainly in the middle ground.
I’m not exactly feeling his icy breath on my shoulder, but I am painfully aware that I am much closer to the end than the beginning.
And with this being the case, I find myself wondering more and more about my own death and, in particular, how I am going to deal with it.
Since life began, death has been a non-negotiable part of the deal and 117 billion people have met their maker with varying degrees of equanimity.
Many of them have exhibited a quiet courage and nobility, accepting their end calmly and philosophically, and popping off with the minimum of fuss.
I admire these people immensely and hope that when my number is called that I emulate them with my grace and courage. But I doubt it. You see, I have a big streak of yellow running through my veins, and I have a strong suspicion that when old Thanatos comes a callin’, I will be snivelling like a baby and begging for morphine to numb the pain and dumb the brain.
My second question is this. Is it death I fear or is it the pain that precedes it? I mean, the concept of becoming nothing is not a particularly terrifying one as I presume that I will be largely unaware of it.
But the concept of dealing with long or short-term pain is a decidedly unedifying one. Living (if you can call it that) on a heady mixture of opiates, oxygen and rice pudding and enduring the indignity of adult diapers and a tube up your old fella.
Hearing the nurse’s voice, heavy with sympathy, as she skirts delicately around the elephant in the room and speaks with a forced cheerfulness every bit as horrifying as your imminent exodus.
Seeing ‘that look’ in the eyes of your loved ones, as they mentally come to terms with your demise and say their final goodbyes.
But above all, knowing that on this, your final journey, you will be travelling alone. NO OTHER PASSENGERS PAST THIS POINT. The best they can do is throng the quay and wave at you as you slip quietly out of the harbour and into oblivion.
And I think, it is perhaps, this latter point that has me shitting myself the most. What sort of awareness will I have as I begin the cruise that has no return? Will I be conscious and fully cognizant of my surroundings, or will I be in a drug-fucked haze? I sincerely hope the latter, as I really don’t want to ‘know before I go.’
But what I do know is this. Sometime in the next 10,220 days (10,219 now, I’ve wasted a day on this little humdinger) I have to somehow metamorphosise from snivelling, abject coward to dignified and courageous fatalist. I can’t see it happening myself, but perhaps there is some biological change I go through where my brain accepts its imminent demise.
The final question I have for me (and by extension for you, my readers) is this. What will the end be like?
Will I slowly fade out of consciousness like those dots on the old TV sets that clung tenaciously to the screen even after the power was switched off?
Or will I have to endure the living (or in this case dying) cliche of the white light corridor thronged with loved ones?
So many questions, so few answers.
Anyhow, I am painfully aware that I have taken valuable minutes out of the slender store of days left available to you - and for that I apologise.
But I am, if you’ll excuse the execrable pun, dying to know the group’s thoughts on this most weighty and grim of topics.
Jeremy is a Sydney-based writer available for your copywriting needs. Just not for that long. You can reach him at jeremys2211@gmail.com
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