Nurturing the End

Like a spider stuck in its web, I carefully disentangle myself from the inevitable and avoidable in the most imperfect human way imaginable. I understand that I do not merely thrive but also perish concurrently with time. I will not be detonated all at once like a nuclear explosive; instead, I shall deteriorate gradually, like a capacitor, as each day saps my soul astray. Just as I have fallen into life, so too shall I fall into death—a little at a time, one cell a day, giving up my spirit.

A swift and sudden death may seem convenient and probably in my best interest. However, spontaneous or unexpected death is an emotive concept, not science-based, requiring no description and offering no meaning. The fact remains: I shall deteriorate incessantly, losing both bodily and mental vitality. This is the difficult task of life, and how I confront my mortality is the most accurate test of my character. My words will not change my path, as my relationship with death remains ambiguous.

Plagued by thoughts of mortality and the emotions it triggers—to be aware of one's futile and perhaps meaningless existence in such a calculated position—leaves me questioning: What does it all mean in the end? Common sense tells me that my life is just a brief flash of light sandwiched between two eons of emptiness—before my birth and after my death.

I spoke with my grandfather a few months after his cancer diagnosis. He preferred to keep his daily routines and maintain his sense of independence. When I advised him to live each day as if it were his last, he expressed his frustrations, saying, "I'll keep making plans; why shouldn't I make plans? This will not break me; the war (Sierra Leone Civil War) didn't, and this certainly won't."

He never accepted his situation, grimacing and shuddering as if it were nothing. He believed that if he focused on the cancer, it would consume him, but if he ignored it, it wouldn't be there, at least not in his mind. As his condition worsened physically and mentally, he resisted identifying with the severity of his illness, attempting to conceal how sick he indeed was and ignoring the reality of his mortality. He never considered his mortality, at least not overtly; he always tried to push it aside—isolating himself from the awareness and attention needed to move forward, as I understood it.

He was convinced that he would overcome his situation, as he had with other difficulties in his life. I want to interpret this as an act of hope and optimism—perhaps a bit too Pollyannaish—but possibly a necessary and formative way to cope with the severity of his sickness. However, how I saw him nurse the last air of his lungs was frankly preposterous. Each "I love you" became a deliberate inhalation, and each hand squeeze was a test of trust. When he died, I understood I was the last vestige of his breath. Of course, I have no idea if I will survive beyond his age. He was roughly 84 years young when he died, and I am only 23, and who knows what the future holds. What I do know is that my former attitude toward accepting the inevitable has shifted. A tiny flame has been slowly blazing inside me. It is an internal rebellion against how my body has been trained to function.

Pulling thoughts back from those times, two queries came to mind about my mortality: (1) How should I react to my growing reliance on others as I slowly deteriorate toward the end? (2) Is it easier to wait until the last moment or be brave and step through the open door? Although death might enter one's life in numerous ways, there are always ways you can open yourself up to it. One may die from a hurricane, sickness, heart failure, alcoholism, or old age. One may die as a result of trauma or a tragedy. One may also die from something other than their so-called terminal condition, even if diagnosed with one. It is a fact that death can come through many doors. I do not attempt to disregard that. However, I contemplate the possibilities and recognize that manifold circumstances result in death, while there are limited forces that sustain life. All life, in some form or another, ends in death. Regardless of what choice you make, your ultimate end will be death.

Indomitably, this leads me down an incremental cliff, filling me with a pitiful state of delusion and cushioning me as time passes so I do not have to feel a single thrust when that innocent youth inside dies. However, that is a more painful death than the complete disappearance of a withering existence as age crosses the great divide.

I remember going for a stroll in the park one day. I saw an elderly gentleman who was hardly able to lift his leg. A distance that took me five steps took him over five minutes to cover. It's incredible how these physical changes become so unnoticeable over time. I'm assuming he was previously my age, and he used to be brimming with vitality and liveliness, rushing about after whatever popular fad and levity at the time. However, as the years pass, we notice that our bodies were once capable of folding, bending, twisting, wrenching, and contorting in ways they are now utterly incapable of doing.

In my lifetime, I have seen many individuals who retire into profound misery, caught between the dread of mortality and the adversity of life—those who cannot live and still do not know how to die. How can one know death if they do not know how to live? Whether death is—as we all may wish—a distant possibility or, due to age or sickness (as it was with my grandfather), a near certainty, it remains an inescapable truth. Stripped to its most basic level, one must develop an authentic role with it. I believe our mortality must be recognized as a probability, acknowledged, and accepted as such.

This ensures that death is encountered as a universal phenomenon we all must face, like one's own child, whom we must nurture and care for and not neglect (due to an innate lack of courage) until the day that child is mature enough to carry on their legacy. Be neither overly optimistic nor pessimistic, for that child will inevitably grow, whether you are aware or unaware of their development, whether by their own will or through the inheritance of your existence—memento mori.