How Am I to Accept Death?

Image by author

I remember when my dad said, “I’m starting to fade away.”

We all knew this was going to happen, including him. It would be his brain shutting down because of the lack of oxygen in his blood. It was a stunning statement to hear. It was one of the last moments my dad knew he was about to die.

How am I to accept death?

Last night I woke up at 3:30 am. The first thing I saw when my eyes opened was a thin, faint line of light running along the ceiling just above my bedroom window curtains. It was the world out there showing me its presence in the darkness of my sleep chamber. It was silent, subtle, but clear. Sitting on the other side of the window, waiting for me to wake, was the constancy of the world.

For now, I’m its guest and have its blessing, which is a highly conditional free reign. But someday — no more guest privileges. The world will move on.

I don’t want to focus on this, but how am I to grow to be okay with it?

Eventually, I fell back to sleep, woke up later, got out of bed and started my day.

The thin, faint line was gone along with its subtle hint that the world, though welcoming, waits for no one. I carried on as usual, adhering myself to the unfolding pieces of my day. This is when I don’t see the big picture — only the details.

The big picture comes into focus when my narrow attention is halted at the train tracks and the obviousness of the fragility of my one life thunders by and rattles me into awareness. Sometimes it’s something beautiful, like my nephew’s new baby or the night sky. Sometimes it’s a loss, like the passing of a stage of life or my dad’s death a year ago.

Those are the rare moments when the tangibility of time speaks to me. It has a quiet power because it knows it doesn’t have to say a word. Time is a king among kings, a thief and a giver. It’s a mirage that is also an apathetic deity that is also the only thing anyone has ever wanted more of.

But the truth is, Time does say words. It tells us repeatedly it’s right here, right now. If only we’d wake up. I’m often conked out — rearranging words in a written draft, paying attention to others, solving daily mundane problems.

Sometimes, I can see what a god sees — exquisiteness. I’m no god, but it’s all there for any of us to see, because why wouldn’t such grandeur be on display?

My sons are going off into the world, and this keeps me awake. When I’m with them I pay attention completely. I drink in the high value of the moment. While I’m glad to be awake and drinking the preciousness of our dwindling time together, I also feel the impending loss. Time waits for no one. I wish there were more.

Just like my dad, I can feel part of my life fading away. I’m thankful to notice.

How am I to accept my life was enough?

My mom’s good friend recently lost her daughter who was around the same age as me. I had a friend once who died before thirty. She’d be in her fifties now. What I’m trying to say is I’m lucky to still be here.

I’ve had plenty of time. Living this long is far longer than most humans who’ve ever lived. This makes me feel like a prized stallion — strong and rare.

Yet, why do I feel like a beggar sometimes who only got bits and pieces? Why don’t I see the scope of the wealth of my life these nearly six decades? I think this is key to accepting the inevitable.

Am I being a downer? Maybe. Or maybe I’m a seeker of a finer outlook — gratitude for the abundance of goodness. Even when there was hardship, goodness came in the form of wisdom eventually. So, either way.

Have I had an extensive career? No. I chose to be with my kids while they were home. Instead, I worked while they were in school, always doing something to be rooted in the working world. Would I choose this again? Yes. So, why do I sometimes grieve the path I didn’t take? I’ve never been to Italy either. Do I grieve Italy? No, because it’s irrelevant.

What’s relevant is how much I had, not how much I didn’t. What I had was extraordinary. What I didn’t is incalculable — a number too large. When I think of accepting death, it doesn’t seem part of the deal to focus on options not taken. Acceptance is about a deep love for the miracle I had.

The word miracle is an irony to me. It sometimes denotes the impossible. I’ve long wondered why we’d need impossible miracles when we have wildly beautiful real miracles surrounding us.

I wonder if the struggle to accept death has a bit to do with wanting impossible miracles. If so, then acceptance must surely come from reverent gratitude for the abundance we experienced on this teeny planet during this miniscule bit of time in the expanse of everything.

In that sense, loving the moments we’ve had must be at the heart of our acceptance not only of death, but life.