A
notice on Facebook this evening informed me that an acquaintance died suddenly,
apparently yesterday, of a heart attack. She was a woman I didn’t know well enough
to call a friend, but we had crossed paths enough that I knew she was vibrant
and lovely, much loved by many people including close friends of mine. What do
you say when you write the surviving husband in the instance of such sudden,
unexpected death? I am always tempted to steal words from Katie Sherrod and say,
“May she rest in peace, and rise in glory.”
Death
is on my mind more than a little bit these days. I think it’s a combination of
age—at 83, I have outlived many friends and contemporaries—and covid, which has
made us all more away of our mortality. Some people will say they want to die
in their sleep—a peaceful way to go, suddenly, without the agonizing knowledge
that death is approaching. When a dear friend died, having moved out of my life
several years earlier, her husband wrote that she was afraid of two things:
falling out of bed and dying. So the night she died he sat by her bed holding
her hand—he could keep her from falling but not from dying. I guess I too fear
the fear of dying.
But I
have also thought recently that if I died in my sleep, there would be so much
left undone. My oldest son is my executor, and he and I work hard together to
keep him up to speed on my career, my finances, my life. But what about that
novel I have half finished? And the project I still want to write about Helen
Corbitt, doyenne of food service at Neiman Marcus for the crucial years in the
1950s and 1960s. My blogs, and the letters of a Mntana author I want to edit. I
have a lot of work yet to do.
I like
to think I am a devout Christian, accepting the teachings of Jesus. Indeed,
much of my political activism comes because I cannot separate Christianity’s
preaching of love each other from politics as I see it today. Remember those
bracelets people wore that said WWJD—what would Jesus do? In my book, most
conservatives have entirely missed the point, and none so much as most
born-again, evangelical Christians. Franklin Graham kind of Christians.
On the
other hand, I’m not at all willing to commit myself on belief in the afterlife.
I simply don’t know. I know a woman my age who truly believes she will ascend
to streets of gold, and everything will be wonderful. I can’t quite buy that
vision for myself, but what I do believe is that the soul lives on after it leaves
the body. A big question for me: do we reunite with those we’ve loved? Could be
ticklish sometimes—like ex-spouses, etc.—but there are many I long to see again.
Can we as spirits embrace? I have no idea.
My
thoughts on the afterlife are meant as a way of saying that I do not fear
death. But I simply do not want to go. At least not now, not yet. I am too
happy, enjoying this life too much. I don’t want to leave my children and my
dog and my friends and those half-written manuscripts. I know I am among the
fortunate, but life as I know it is too good. Which somehow makes me think
though that even people in desperate situations cling to life—and that brings
Ukraine to mind and the desperate people whose fate hangs in the hands of the
superpowers. But that is another subject for another day.
A
friend told me that once his father died, his mother soon tired of life. She
felt she needed to follow her husband and be sure that he was all right. And
maybe that’s the ideal state—to be ready to leave this life. Not with anger or
sadness, just ready to move on. And knowing it.
Sudden
death doesn’t offer you that opportunity. So I think tonight of that old
nursery prayer which must have scared children to death:
Now I
lay myself down to sleep
I pray
the Lord my soul to keep
And if
I should die before I wake
I pray
the Lord my soul to take.
