The flavours of death

Once upon a time, the only kind of death that would have been written about here would be Death by Chocolate from Corner House. But middle age brings its own set of journeys.

I don’t remember being afraid of death. I think it was only reinforced after my heart attacked me in 2021! Even during the trip to the hospital and the procedures, I don’t remember being afraid. I wondered later whether it was a remnant of the arrogance of an earlier self – you know, the aura of invincibility and immortality we (or at least I) had around the 20s. They have reduced it to a single word now – swag.

But even in that lack of fear, there were some undercurrents that I couldn’t reconcile. For instance, that melancholic feeling of memories having nowhere to live. As Simone de Beauvoir writes,

It was after meds and health checks became a standard part of living that I began to get an understanding. Yes, I didn’t fear death itself, but I did have a concern about the ageing process, and the suffering that might be involved. Also, I really didn’t want to lie around as a burden to anyone. I have seen that enough – the reduction (and I use that word consciously) of a human being into a shell of his/her former self. I have seen that happen as a gradual process, and as a sudden occurrence (an accident or a critical illness) and it isn’t pleasant at all.

But it was when I read Arthur C. Brooks’ Strength to Strength that I got a more nuanced understanding. According to the book, there are eight distinct dimensions of death : fear of being destroyed, fear of the dying process, fear of the dead, fear for significant others, fear of the unknown, fear of conscious death, fear for body after death, and fear of premature death.

From this, I realised that in addition to the dying process, I had another one – fear for significant others. In this case, D. A rational part of me says that there are many things I can do, like ensuring the finances are in place for her to live comfortably, and that she has emotional anchors other than me. And that as humans, we mostly normalise after a while. But another part of me exchanges shoes, and realises how futile I would consider my life if she were not around.

And that’s when I realise that I may not fear all the flavours of death, but to think that I will ever be prepared for it is hubris.