I know the title of this post sounds grim, and I can assure you now that I’m not actually planning to die. I just finished reading a book “What are you going through?” by Sigrid Nunez, in which the narrator’s friend tries to kill herself before the cancer gets to her first, with the help of the narrator herself.
I can’t think of a more elegant way of putting this, but in a way I’m happy that in the novel, the friend had some kind of forewarning about the amount of days she get to live on for before the cancer consumes her. I hope that I am met with the same fate when my time comes, because that would be the game changer in how I would leave this world.
It’s weird to want to know when you’re going to die, but I think ultimately it’ll give me the greatest peace (as much peace as I could get in that situation). Because this was what I got from the novel: Things that you feel are all-consuming right now feels like nothing when you know you’re about to die.
Sometimes I stress about the not knowing enough about the stock market and what shares to buy to maximise my profit, but I bet that’s the last thing on my mind if I know that my days are numbered.
If I know when I’m about to die, I wouldn’t give a shit how much weight I’ve gained recently now that the weather is getting colder, and how guilty I feel for binging out on more food to keep myself warm. I’ll indulge in as much of my favourite comfort food as possible without the habitual nagging at the back of my head telling me to watch myself.
I won’t ever get insecure and sad about my ever-persistent acne problem on my face, and I’ll be more concerned about showing my face and my smile to everyone and anyone who cares enough to notice.
I won’t want to hide behind a face full of concealer anymore, I only want to feel the relief when my face is able to breathe as freely as my soul now that I’m released from everyone’s expectations and perceptions of me.
I won’t be stressing over work and how I should probably send that one last email before heading home. I won’t obsess over what I should’ve said or shouldn’t have said to someone, hours after the conversation had ceased.
I won’t cry over crusty boys that have broken my heart and disappointed me time and time again, because I have too much better things to think about with too little time.
When I die (this is not an “if” statement, because death is inevitable), I don’t want to be remembered as someone who never got over the grudge I held over someone who hurt me in the past, or that I was someone who never hid her disdain of her life and would always have something to complain about.
I also don’t want to be remembered for being a hardworking employee, and how I was always anxious over replying to people’s emails even past my work hours, or that I got the highest ATAR score in my cohort.
We’ve been so conditioned to strive for the best and greatest things, but at your deathbed I swear it’s the most menial details that matter the most. It’s the smallest things I would like to be remembered for, and what would probably be on my mind until my very last breath.
Here are some of the things I want people to remember me by:
- That Cheryl is someone who really loves sweet desserts, especially matcha-flavoured treats.
- That Cheryl’s best form of therapy is screaming at the top of her lungs to Olivia Rodrigo’s “Vampire”.
- That Cheryl loves picnics at Hyde Park.
- That Cheryl’s comfort meal that she likes to cook for herself when she’s eating alone is Japanese curry rice.
- That Cheryl believes in 11:11 and would never fail to make a wish when she sees it.
- That Cheryl loves the smell of saltwater in the air whenever she’s close to a beach.
Lastly but most importantly, I’d like to be remembered as the girl that never took the tiny things in her life for granted.
