My Death Anxiety and Other Inconveniences

This is the last picture taken of Dad and me. He died 19 days later, on Christmas Eve 2021. Christmas kind of sucks now.

Ever since my dad died 1235 days ago, I’ve been thinking about death a lot. It’s not constant, but whenever I have a little bit of down time, the thoughts barge their way to the surface.

I don’t feel like it’s maudlin or any reason for concern. I don’t think about taking myself out, though it makes me feel a little better knowing I could (that’s a Marc Maron joke). It’s more of an acceptance that everything dies, and wondering what happens afterwards.

I’ve always identified as agnostic. It’s impossible to know what happenes after death. Atheists and people of faith are in the same category for me; they’re people who are certain they are right. I find that to be arrogant. Have your beliefs if they help you get through the day, but do not try to tell me that your way is the only way. There are exponentially more mysteries remaining for humans to solve than there are things that have already been solved.

As I age, I’m more willing to accept the idea that maybe there is an intelligence far beyond ours that is responsible for life on earth. I’m also willing to believe we’re living in a simulation. I’m also willing to believe that I’m the only real person and everyone else is a figment of my imagination. Except my dog, Alice. She’s clearly real.

Multiple times a day, for a multitude of reasons, I think “what the hell is going on here?” It’s frustrating as hell to have no answer for that.

After dad died, I really wanted to have faith. I was envious of people who did. It seemed like it might provide a little bit of comfort knowing dad was okay and in heaven, waiting for me and mum to show up. He’d be with all our dogs. This is the thing I want the most, but it seems so unlikely.

My mum is faithful. Church every Sunday. She once said to me, “If dad is in heaven, how will I find him? There are billions of people up there. I couldn’t even find him in the grocery store when he wandered off.”

What makes me me, and you you, is our brains. Once they stop functioning, that’s that. It seems to me to be so unlikely that my soul — or whatever — gets transported someplace else and I’m still me. But who knows? It could be that. I certainly would not completely discount it.

A few years back, I had a generalized tonic-clonic seizure. They used to be called Gran Mal seizures. I sort of remember saying “what’s going on?” before it fully kicked in. And then, according to Mrs. Pancakes, I went down and started turning blue as my entire body reacted to an electrical storm in my brain. I have absolutely no memory of the entire event. I went down, and the next thing I knew I was staring at a paramedic’s shoe and I’d peed my pants and chewed the shit out of the inside of my cheeks. That’s a missing part of my life. No dreams. No white light. No voice telling me it wasn’t my time. Nothing. Literally nothing.

A friend of mine who died of a heart attack and was brought back said the same thing. There was nothing. It’s hard to understand until it happens to you. Nothing is impossible to explain, because there’s nothing to explain.

We spread dad’s ashes in a couple of locations he loved. I sprinkled some in Lower Kananaskis Lake. I wonder if they were swallowed by a fish, or if they just dispersed and dissipated into the ether as the component atoms of what used to be the meat machine that transported dad around the planet.

Anne Druyan commented about the death of her husband, Carl Sagan;

“The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don’t ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief and precious life is. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful.” ​

When I think about Alice dying, or my mum, or Mrs. Pancakes, I get upset in advance. My throat tightens and I feel the tears welling up. I know how it’s going to feel and it’s going to be fucking awful.

I think about who’s going to go first, me or Mrs. P. I don’t want her to have to deal with me going first, but I also don’t want to deal with her going.

I wish my brain would stop with the melodrama but it keeps being such an asshole. Brains are going to brain, I guess.

Tightly interwoven with my thoughts on death are my thoughts about the universe and the concept of infinity, which is a much more hopeful and uplifting topic. I’ll post that essay later this week.

Take care of yourself, and if you can, someone else too. It’s chaos out there. Be kind.

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