That 'Death' Thing

It wakes me up from a sound sleep, heart pounding, skin like ice. It hits me out of nowhere, when I'm carrying a load of laundry down the stairs, driving, at work, at dinner, at the movies. For a moment, I'm frozen solid, paralyzed, chilled and terrified. I'm going to die. Not immediately. Probably not soon. But someday.

I'm assuming this is a normal phobia for twenty-somethings who are just realizing they're mortal, or anyone, really; some might go through it a little later, maybe earlier. Maybe some feel it more than others. I hit twenty-five in August, and I'm hoping this prolonged, unreasonable, and I'm pretty sure excessive fear goes away soon. Some days I think I'm cracking up. Maybe I need therapy. Mom says she went through it too, and thinks it was about this age. Hers went away on its own.

It's not a debilitating phobia. I don't avoid certain activities because there's a chance they could kill me; that would mean avoiding everything, really. Driving, eating, sleeping, living in a basement. In fact, I think I'm still downright reckless. I still ride in the beds of trucks on the freeway, still leave candles burning, still go rockhounding during hunting season, without wearing orange. The funny thing about my fear of death is that it's not the blackness, the being buried, the possibility of nothing else, ever, that frightens me. After all, I love to sleep. I've no doubt that someday I'll be so tired I'll yearn for oblivion. What scares me is that I might not live long enough to get everything done. So if anything, it's causing me to hurry up and try to accomplish something before my time's up. But it makes me apprehensive. What if that thing I keep planning on never pans out? What if I wait my whole life for it to happen and by the time I realize it's not going to, it's too late to change course? It's hard to weigh the future consequences of sacrifices we think we're willing to make now.

I'm not worried about achieving fame and fortune. My artistic abilities may evolve into something really significant; they may not. I'm willing to work hard to make something of them, but not to the detriment of enjoying the short time we have. I like the simple aspects of life too much to sacrifice them to ambition. Maybe that's laziness. Maybe it's smarts. I paint, I write, I'm musical- but that's not all I'm good for. The point is, I don't think the quality of my life depends on my accomplishments. I'm helpful (very helpful) and kind (probably too kind) and that's more important than earning pages and pages of returns when I get Googled.

I'm not too concerned about large-scale philanthropy, either. If I ever achieve the resources, then yes, I'll be glad to fight some causes. I'll restore old buildings; I'll provide healthcare for the elderly; I'll fund diabetes research; I'll rescue a greyhound named Boomer. Maybe that's selfish, to not worry about poverty or war or the environment. But I still think I'm worth more to the world as an artist than I would be as an activist. I know half-a-dozen people who will cringe at this, but Ralph Waldo Emerson said: To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded. Even as vague and stilted and philosophical as it is, I think there's no better distilled lifetime bill of fare than that.

I may read this twenty years hence and scoff. Life as a person comes with a cerebral disclaimer, though, doesn't it? We may be persecuted for changing our minds, but we still can. We still do. If we're lucky, nobody will remember we ever felt otherwise.

I'm obviously still alive today, and it's far too rare a gem to spend contemplating imminent death. I'll let the shivers pass over and whistle some Purple Carnival while the leaves turn to lemon drops outside on a perfect golden autumn afternoon. It's Friday before a three-day weekend, it's almost quitting time and I'm going to spend the evening with my favorite and only sister, my boisterous brother-in-law, and a little girl who doesn't know life isn't forever. Like all six-almost-seven-year-olds, her potential is astounding, and instead of trying to impress upon her that we only have so much time, I'm going to take a cue from Bitsy and pretend like having fun tonight is all in the world that I have to worry about. Because really, it is.