A few months back, I found myself wandering around a theme park with my husband, my siblings, and my brother-in-law. We were on an adults-only vacation, thoroughly enjoying ourselves—riding thrilling attractions, indulging in junk food, and playfully casting spells at innocent passers-by.
During one of our evening strolls, amidst the laughter and good vibes, someone casually mentioned the topic of death. I chimed in about that unsettling moment when life is just flowing, and suddenly, it hits you: you’re going to die one day. You know that feeling when your heart races and you sense the chilling grip of death creeping closer, leaving you with no way to escape? Anyone else experience this? No? Just me?
Great.
At least once a week—sometimes more—I’m jolted by the reminder of my own mortality. It quickens my heartbeat, making me acutely aware of the fact that one day, I won’t be here. And then it hits me that it’s not just me; everyone I love will also face the same fate. A lump forms in my throat, my heart races, and I feel that familiar wave of discomfort. The realization that once those who knew me are gone, my existence fades into nothingness is sobering. There are countless graves around the world, filled with lives once vibrant, now forgotten—a fate that awaits us all.
Then, I usually have a mild panic attack until I can distract myself, typically by humming a Beyoncé song. I mean, nobody is going to forget Beyoncé. She’s managed to secure her legacy in the hearts of people for generations. Lucky her.
I don’t have a terminal illness or anything that suggests I’ll meet my end anytime soon. Most of my family members live long enough to say things that would make you cringe without any repercussions, which is reassuring. However, I do become hyper-aware of death in certain situations. I’m a blast to fly with—my seatbelt is fastened the moment I sit down, and it stays that way until we touch down again. I might consider cocktails to ease my nerves, but the thought of needing to use the restroom during a flight terrifies me. I imagine the plane going down while I’m in the lavatory, resulting in an embarrassing and chaotic end. Not how I want to go out.
While the thought of death is unnerving, it’s the aftermath that sends my anxiety into overdrive. When my partner and I were drafting our wills, he was surprisingly nonchalant. He’s all for donating his body to science, thinking it’s a noble way to give back. To my logical mind, it makes total sense. But then my irrational side chimes in with worries about what would happen to my remains. Should I just donate my organs and have my body cremated? But then what if my ashes end up in an unattractive urn? Or worse, what if they’re scattered somewhere that’s one day underwater due to climate change?
Before I know it, my thoughts spiral: I start imagining my brain being frozen or my family fighting over my ashes at an estate sale. I even think about how I might need to win the lottery to ensure my descendants visit my mausoleum regularly to keep my memory alive. Maybe I should even consider a scandal that could make me infamous. Because if I can’t live forever, perhaps I can at least remain in the public’s mind for generations to come.
Wills are an enlightening exercise, if not a tad depressing. Seriously, you should have one.
The reality is that grappling with the concept of death is something I’ll likely be doing until my last breath. It’s a bit melancholy to think about, but at least if I live a long life, I can feel somewhat prepared for whatever comes next.