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Recently my parents visited a relative at an assisted living facility. She was in relatively good health despite her advanced age; they had seen her only two days prior and had carried out a full conversation with her. On this visit they noticed that she had begun to mumble, to the point that they found it difficult to understand her. The next day, the staff at the facility called to inform them that she was now incoherent, sleeping all day, and eating almost nothing. They recommended entering her into hospice care. My parents decided to visit again to see her condition in person, and they asked me and my wife if we would like to join them.
I felt quite anxious at the thought of their invitation. This relative was close to me throughout my life, and I love and admire her very much. The idea of seeing someone I love in such a state turned my stomach and triggered a visceral fear in me: the true fear of death, the true fear of loss.
This was not the first time I felt that fear. Several years ago a different relative of mine became vegetative after suffocating on a piece of food. The family made the decision to remove him from life support, and we were given the opportunity to see him one last time before it happened. I was so wracked with the fear of facing that reality that I refused to see him.
I used to simply run away from everything that made me uncomfortable in my life. After high school I gave up on attending my initial university of choice because I was scared of the idea of moving to a different state and leaving my friends behind. I put up with a string of unhealthy relationships because I was afraid that I would be inflicting emotional damage if I broke up first. I even took my first full-time position simply because I worried that I wouldn't be able to find anything better. The fear of death is the strongest and the most basic of all human fears--I couldn't bear to face anything that exposed me to the thought of losing someone or something forever.
In the intervening years I've had to face many trials in my life. I've had to learn how to make uncomfortable choices, if for no other reason that I have many responsibilities now. I not only need to face my fears: I want to. I want to know that even when I'm terrified of what lies before me, I can at least look it in the eye.
I decided to join my parents during that visit, My relative was practically unresponsive, half-asleep in her bed and breathing with some difficulty. I found myself not looking directly at her most of the time. However, she was still aware that we had come to visit; when my parents held her hand, she pulled their hands close to her side. When it was time to leave, I stepped close by and held her hand as well. I told her I loved her and we would all see her again. But when I let go of her hand to pull away, she held on.
I choked up. My mind was instantly consumed by one thought: if I let go, there was a very real possibility that I would never hold her hand again. All the fears and insecurities and vulnerability I've ever felt came rushing to the fore in an overwhelming deluge. It took everything I had not to break down and start sobbing.
I am scared to die. I am scared of those I love dying. I am scared of losing people that shaped me, that I admire and respect, that care about me and listen to me and comfort me and support me and encourage me and enable me to live the life I live.
And it's okay to be scared. As long as fear doesn't win.
I went to see her that day because I was scared. I could have run away again, taking comfort in the good memories I have and living life as if she were there and I just haven't called her in a while. But I wanted to face the truth. I wanted to know I could do it. And I will forever be glad that I made that choice.
She died less than 48 hours later. I never held her hand again.
Rest in peace, J.
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[Last updated: 2024-05-13]