“Are you scared?”
“Sometimes.”
“What are you scared of?”
“Dying.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to die.”
“We’re all going to die. Why are you scared of dying? What is it about dying that scares you?”
I cannot leave statements hanging. I am a scratcher. If it itches, I scratch—until it bleeds, so it will form a scab. And then I will scratch that scab until it eventually falls off on its own without leaving a mark.
“I like living, and I don’t want to leave you … oh, and I’m scared of losing my hair.”
“So you would rather die with a full head of hair than live with no hair? Such damn vanity!”
“No, that was just an offhand remark, I still have too much living to do. I enjoy life. There’s so much life left.”
“I understand. I get scared, too. Not of dying, but I don’t want you to leave me.”
How different this conversation is from discussing the weather, gardening, going for a walk, the shopping list, what we should do tomorrow, etc. But being diagnosed with terminal cancer has the innate ability to change everything.
A dance with mortality
Life is nothing but a dance with mortality, a waltz between the known and the unknown. We are born dying—not a cliché, but a fact we all know, or should know but refuse to accept. We pirouette to the chirping of birds, snowplow the latest winter sky offering to “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” (I am seriously weird), and cavort down the highway in the Mini Cooper to “And I will walk 500 miles… .” We glide through the days, mostly oblivious to the fragility of our existence until an unexpected twist forces us to confront our mortality head-on.
The initial shock of a cancer diagnosis is akin to falling face-first into a pile of shit in the dark.
The initial shock of a cancer diagnosis is akin to falling face-first into a pile of shit in the dark—and not just for the one diagnosed. No single person gets cancer on their own. Everyone in the family and close circle gets it, too. As much as the patient must deal with the side effects of meds, so do the caregivers and the families, neighbours and friends.
He can’t sleep? Neither can I. Not hungry? Funny, my appetite has disappeared too. The slightest cough brings on a gritting of my teeth. Others may cough because something is tickling their throat. No, no. It’s the metastasis in his lungs, it’s getting bigger, it’s uncontained, it’s … he’s breathing too heavily, he’s not breathing … check if his body is warm, great, he’s not dead, just sleeping peacefully. Why is he limping? He’s not remembering things, why? Metastases back, or is he choosing to forget? He does this, or used to, anyway. Jeez, brain, enough already!
Fear, that primal fight-flight-freeze response hardwired into our beings, raises its ugly head as a sometimes-relentless companion. It’s not just the fear of the disease itself, but the fear of the unknown beyond the diagnosis. What is the treatment, if any? Can he handle the side effects? If not, then what? What lies on the other side of the treatment regimen? Will he be cured? (The answer to that is apparently no—so far, anyway.)
So he goes into remission, then what? Will it come back? Will we die of old age first? Will he die first, and if he doesn’t, who will take care of him? We have to outlive the cats (little things that are very important). Will life ever return to normal? How on earth do we even define normal these days?
Death is our constant companion
And that dying thing, that abstract concept that happens to everyone, has been transformed into a tangible, palpable presence. Death is our constant companion, and like in Terry Pratchett’s novels, it speaks to us in uppercase letters: HELLO, PLEASED TO MEET YOU AT LAST … MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE?
Pretentious idiot! Uninvited, it arrives full-tilt and makes itself at home. Suddenly, we are teetering on the edge of a precipice, peering into the abyss of what comes next. In the blink of an eye, our dancing partners have changed from Life to DEATH.
I don’t think it’s the fear of the unknown after death that twists our guts. Quite honestly, as far as I am concerned, there is nothing after death. This life we have now is it and we better enjoy it while we have it, make the most of it. It’s FOMO—fear of missing out—that grabs the solar plexus and squeezes relentlessly. We just happen to love life … a lot … and we have a lot to love. Each other, our families, our friends, our furry creatures, nature, just life itself.
And suddenly, little things have significance. A sunrise, his laughter, the taste of a warm cup of coffee, the smell of cut grass, dew on a flower, snowflakes on eyelashes … the little mundane things become precious, bolded and italicized by the understanding that nothing is endless.
In confronting the fear of dying, we discover a profound appreciation for life. We learn to cherish the dance for what it is—a fleeting, delightful, often joint-creaking turn in the grand ballroom of existence. The fear may not dissipate entirely, but it is reshaped into a driving (well, slow ambling) force, urging us to bear-hug the life we have left.
And dance partner be damned—Life, DEATH—the dance remains the same. Only the music changes.
"СВЯЗАННОЕ ЧТЕНИЕ" LIVING WITH DEATH AND DYING WITH DIGNITY: Delicate decisions about when to leave the planet»
All images created by AI
