Call Me Morbid

Lately, I've been thinking far too much about death. Possibly an unhealthy amount. To be honest, I always have been, not quite obsessed, but probably one rung down on the crazy ladder: intensely preoccupied, at least twice a month, with what happens to us after we pass from this life. With this past Saturday marking one year since my younger brother's tragic and untimely passing, that occasional preoccupation has morphed into constant morbid thoughts: Will it really be what we're all hoping for, what most of us have been led to believe--a euphoric reprieve from this life's challenges, tribulations and sometimes unbearable burden of pain? Do we move on to another life, in another bodily form? Do non believers and the corrupt souls amongst us truly burn eternally? Or is there nothing at all waiting for us after we die? We simply cease to exist. After much contemplation and gobbling up of all the information I could find on the topic, I've come to believe in a combination of two of these possibilities: God has many lessons for us to conquer and so we live on and we learn, until our spirits have evolved enough for us to earn our places in what we call heaven. I believe this because it's what I want to believe, because it offers an explanation of why God would allow so many people, particularly children, to suffer so. In this way I can look at pain as being for our own goods, to strengthen our souls and make us more like our Creator and His son, fit to exist beside Them eternally.


Another factor that has prompted me to think so much about death is that, like many of you, I read in the recent news about the young woman with terminal brain cancer who, with the assistance of a physician, has chosen to end her life around the first part of next month. Medical professionals have estimated that if she lets the cancer take it's course, she has less that six months to live anyway, and the end of her life would surely be excruciatingly painful and without dignity. She does not want her family to see her go out like that, and her main justification is that she's not the one who's ending her life, the cancer is, she's only speeding up the process. I get what she's saying and I agree. I'm a strong proponent of sparing needless suffering in humans as well as animals, therefore, I am a supporter of physician assisted suicide in such cases, and I think that more states should allow it.


Some may argue that suicide is a coward's way out, and under any circumstances other than to end the suffering from a cruel, terminal illness, I too believe it is. The people who ridicule and judge this young woman for wanting to end, what must be hell on earth for her, surely have not endured anything close to what she has. She's made a brave decision, and going public to heighten awareness took almost as much courage. My fear, as a Christian, is for her soul. God forgives any sin, but how can she ask for His forgiveness after she's dead? I can only hope for His mercy on her and the many others before and after her that will be forced to make the same choice. When I think of the suffering of this young woman, I look back in disgust at the times in my early adulthood when I seriously considered suicide. How dare I, having been blessed with extraordinarily good health, (Daddy insisted my heartiness is because the unsanitary lifestyle I was forced to lead, as a result of Mama's abuse, subjected me to an unusual amount of germs, which, in turn, caused me to form strong immunities) even allow such a notion to enter my mind? Had I followed through with my thoughts of ending my life over a few unfortunate, yet tolerable, challenges, I would have been the definition of a coward.


Nobody wants to talk about death, although it's a fact of everyone's life. If what awaits us after we die, as most of us believe, is full of light and love, then why is everyone so afraid of dying? Call me morbid, but if everything I know in my heart is true, when the time finally comes for me to die (for good), death will be my reward, a much needed and hopefully well-earned rest for a soul that is growing weary.

The Frailty of Life

Most people, when confronted with tragedy, turn to family and friends for comfort. But because I have adjusted to life without a family, and grown accustomed to concealing and suppressing my pain, I turn to pen and paper instead. Some of my words--often the ones most drenched with angst--I destroy, or tuck away in a secret place, never to be read by anyone. Others I cast out into the world, hoping someone else who's had a similar experience will happen upon what I've written and glean a ray of solace, or, better yet, be compelled to make a positive change in his or her life, and, in this case, benefit from my mistake.

So here's what happened: One of my brothers recently passed away. By choice. He took his own life, leaving behind no trace of a reason for his action. Only questions, questions that wake me in the middle of the night: Was the way he did it a shrouded message? Was what he was wearing a hint as to why? Was his dysfunctional childhood somehow to blame? 

As masochistic as this may sound, I long to feel the devastation of this loss of a sibling, my brother, my blood. But because I never got to know him at all, because of the unfortunate truth that he was nothing more than a passing acquaintance, I am left only with these unresolved questions, and a gut-wrenching sadness at the thought of him reaching the hopeless point of where the only way to end his unbearable pain was to end his life. And guilt. Most of all I'm left with guilt. Guilt that I never put forth more effort to make the lanky cotton-top boy, who once played in the background of my childhood, something more than a vague memory.

I wanted to start a relationship with him after Mama's death, last year. I thought it would be a good time to at least begin. After all, Mama was the one who had kept us apart. Wasn't she? But he didn't think it was a good time. Too soon. So we put the idea on a backburner and that's where it stayed, simmering, waiting for one of us to pick it up. But neither of us ever did. I'll always be tormented by the thought that maybe if I'd tried harder--pushed harder--to become a part of his life, I could have somehow stopped him from turning down the dark road he ended up on. Or not. Maybe there's no amount of familial love and support that could have saved him. I'll never know, because now it's too late to find out. Too late to say I love you, brother.