Fear of Living
Margo and an Unidentified Man
I'm afraid of dying. I imagine only the young and the reckless embrace death. They believe they have an eternity to find happiness, so they find solace in time. These people might look for that fleeting sense of peace at the bottom of a bottle, after taking some molly, or when riling up social media warfare.
They're the kids singing, "Only the good die young." Oft-times they’re green and so myopically engrossed in the ritual of youth culture that they can’t fathom how 72 is young, but that’s the fault of a society that sells us on a youth wasted. An implication that pleasure ceases after 25 for women, and 30 for men.
Even as a teenager, I've always been too serious or too worried. For instance, I steered clear of airplanes because I viewed them as death traps. Each time I avoided one, I decreased my chances of dying. The stats say I would be safer in a plane than in a car, but I lived in Brooklyn, so I rarely saw the inside of a car and who needs to fly on the daily.
Then, one day, I came face-to-face with death. I thought I understood it. I knew people have died; I knew people before them had died. This time I had no clue it was coming.
They say death sneaks up on you. It's a normal day, then a bad day. It was a day no different from today.
The sun, the clouds, and occasionally, the whistle of the wind. You imagine death would come on a rainy day. You dress appropriately and shield yourself with a raincoat and an umbrella. Maybe this will ward it off.
I was in Brooklyn, likely mourning the end of a long-term relationship, and honestly, likely making everyone involved a mental target. I received a call from my aunt's house.
My grandmother was on the line. "I've been meaning to call you."
"Why didn't you?"
"I didn't know if you were busy."
"I'm never too busy for you."
A film movie she got a kick out of in the midst of divorcing because it placed a woman in the action hero role.
I'm 100 percent sure I began talking about what had been on my mind in the prior weeks to get her mind off the pain. I'm very well-versed in the power of distraction. This time, it didn't work.
The conversation quickly came to an end, and I knew it was time to make the journey from New York to Northern Virginia.
The first thing I said when I encountered life transitioning to death:
"Your hair looks nice," I lied.
"It does?"
She was in pain. Extreme pain. Her breath was laborious. She was restless. Her white blood cell count numbers were well above 250,000. A normal range is between 5,000 – 10,000. The body’s defense for infection was killing her. Acute Myeloid Leukemia.
I got closer to her ear to whisper, "I love you very much, lady."
I could see by the hospital room set-up that they weren't preparing her to survive. This was the configuration for death. A painless one at least. I was ready to head out. It was a Friday night.
I'm not sure how long I stayed. An hour? Two hours?
Once Saturday rolled around, I was back in the hospital for a visit. Not long after, I volunteered to babysit my little cousins. I looked for any excuse to be absent for the transition I knew was happening.
That night, I went to my aunt's house. At around 11pm, the call came. The doctor rattled off questions about what should be done about feeding and resuscitation although my grandmother already made it clear: Do not resuscitate.
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It was time to head back to the hospital. There, I slept on a hospital chair with my youngest aunt. We shared the tiny space. To be honest, I don't think we actually slept. We were observing from the chair.
The children each had alone time with her to share their last words. The doctor came in when I, the granddaughter, would have had my time, and though never the one for public exchanges of affection, the words came freely to me this time.
I won't share them however.
In the morning, she persevered, and I told the family to go get dressed. It was Easter. It was the day she would have gone to her family church with all her living siblings.
I used my Samsung II Epic to play gospel music. I chose her favorite song. I even threw in some Kirk Franklin to mix it up. She reached out her hand, and I touched it or placed it down next to her.
The nurse was confused by her continued movements, perhaps believing she should be too drugged up, too close to death to be able to do anything but slumber into passing.
The next time the nurse came in, my grandmother’s breathing indicated that she was very close to death. The family arrived.
When her soon-to-be-ex-husband came in, he was given some alone time.
Oddly, I called my ex to thank him for shuttling us to the hospital during a visit back in February. Distraction.
“Hi Neka, How are you? Sitting here at my “puter” That’s all I do all day! Oh! and crochet. I’m going to get fat! But that’s okay. (smile) I have been thinking about you. I was looking for my wire “thingy” to hook up my camera and send you pictures from yesterday. I was at Tammy’s and we went to the “pumpkin fest” It was fun! Iva was there. Anyway, I’ll send pics as soon as I get the “hookup.” ”
We walked back into the room, probably 20 minutes later. It was then I witnessed death, the gasping of it — due to the Ativan used to keep you from getting too anxious while you're dying.
I broke down. I had already advised everyone in the room not to touch me.
"I'm not a group crier," I warned. Let me mourn in peace.
I've been mourning ever since.
It was Easter when my grandmother died. Sunday, April 8, 2012. I don't do death dates.
With the approaching holiday, I do recognize some things have changed about me in the last year, and the courage that has birthed from Paris to BK: I don't see planes the same way.
I'm still afraid of 'em. But after a lifetime of avoiding Paris because it was too far, because I could crash into the ocean, or because I could die in a fiery crash, I learned something: My fear of planes was equally connected to a fear of living.
Since Easter 2012, I have been on plane eight times, and I have seen Paris twice.
I've begun the journey of living.
*This post is from a former blog dated March 2013.
