Life
Living is Dying
So die on your own terms
I’ve had a near-death experience at least five times in my life. The first time I almost died, I wasn’t even born yet.
See, my mother had me seventeen years after my older brother. She was almost forty at the time. Instead of the average 42 weeks (nine months), I was way past due, close to eleven months. So, of course, as kind as mother nature was, my mother suffered dire consequences during childbirth. As if that was not enough, our health system made things worse for her.
That was my first brush with death.
Later, while I was still a child, I was involved in an accident. I got knocked down by a vehicle. Twice.
Okay, relax. The vehicle was just a bicycle. But that doesn’t mean my little life didn’t flash right before my eyes.
I was six or seven when the first accident occurred. So while I remember how terrified I was, most of the details are still vague.
The second accident, however, was more memorable. Mostly because it was dramatic as hell. I was very athletic as a child (I still am) and I would always be running like a crazed bull in a rodeo whenever I got the chance. When twelve-year-old me at the time run an errand for my mom, I literally run that errand.
Carrying in one hand the onions and palm oil I’d been sent to buy, I came to the road right in front of my home. Look, I was twelve, not stupid. I knew I had to wait and watch the road before crossing it. And that was exactly what I did.
There were no vehicles in sight, obviously, so I crossed the road.
But suddenly, this bicycle came out of nowhere and just rammed into me. What happened next was something straight out of a Bollywood action movie. Basically, imagine a scene with a grown-ass man falling flat on his face, a bicycle hurled off the road with crazy spinning tires, and a young girl bleeding profusely, with the light slowly going out of her eyes.
The last part is an exaggeration, I admit, but that was exactly what it looked like. You see, the palm oil had burst and spilled all over my body, dripping down my legs. My neighbor, who had witnessed the whole thing, actually thought I was bleeding and dying.
Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. Other than a little bruise here and there on my knees and elbows, I was still in one piece. The whole ordeal, however, traumatized me for a while. Was that enough to stop me from running ever again though?
No.
In fact, two years later, I would almost die because of this same running nonsense. And to be honest, I wouldn’t even be mad had I died, because I was a fucking idiot. Seriously, who runs like a damn maniac while it’s raining heavily and everywhere was so slippery? No one, but this fool. AKA, me.
So yes, I slipped, hit my head hard on the stone pavement, then blacked out. How long I was unconscious, I did not know. Could have been minutes, could have been hours. I had no idea. But I woke up feeling humble, completely forgetting that legs weren’t only meant for walking.
There was also that time in primary school when I was almost crushed by a wall of concrete that collapsed on the top floor of our school building. I was standing just below it, and a senior was leaning on top of the weak wall.
Luckily, the rubble collapsed right next to me, barely an inch away from my foot. All I remember were the mortified screams of my colleagues and teachers, and me just standing there in a daze, transfixed by the pile of blocks and dust gathering at my feet. Only an inch and that would have been me under that pile.
Except for the first death experience, which I didn’t know about until my mother told me, every one of these had filled me with dread. Today, I look back at most of them and laugh. Yet they had been no laughing matter to my younger self.
But while each of these had scared me shitless, nothing could be compared to the near-death experiences I had later in my teenage and young adult years.
There was no slipping and hitting my head, no vehicular accidents involved, nor was there a collapsing wall. It was never that dramatic. In fact, it happened in the comfort of my own home, in my own bed, at the time I should be most safe.
The first time it happened, it was like someone was pressing a pillow in my face with every ounce of their energy. When I tried to struggle, I couldn’t move. What the hell? After wrestling with my mind and body to break free, I eventually woke up in the middle of the night sweating like a tourist in hell. No, it wasn’t a dream. It was real. This was the work of the devil, or so I thought at the time.
My mom agreed with me after I’d explained the whole thing to her. Who else would try to kill me in the middle of the night but the devil himself?
“Next time call on Jesus,” she said.
Oh, but I tried the first time. And then every other time. I could never speak when that happened. I did think of Jesus, calling on him in my mind to save me. It was the best I could do since I couldn’t speak. But Jesus can’t save you if you can’t say his name out loud, apparently.
In my late teenage years, while I was losing my faith, I no longer blamed the devil for this. But it wasn’t until later in my adult life that I learned what was actually happening to me. It was a real thing people actually suffered.
Sleep paralysis.
It’s the scariest shit I’ve ever experienced.
You feel like some dark cosmic entity is snuffing the life out of you. You understand what’s going on, yet you can neither move nor think. You know your brain needs oxygen, yet you can’t breathe. Your mind struggles to release your body from captivity, yet your body doesn’t exist.
If there’s anything that made me fear death for what it truly was, then it’s sleep paralysis. The constant battle of staying alive and suffocating to death was always enough to remind me of what a gift life was.
I used to be afraid of dying, and the mere thought of it was enough to give me a panic attack. I guess being raised to fear for my mortal soul heavily contributed to this unhealthy obsession.
Ironically, my soul has never felt freer ever since I parted ways with religion. If I die, then so be it. When death visited my father, I knew then it was nothing special. Everyone dies. That was the way of life. It is sad, yes. You will grieve, yes. But you’ll move on eventually.
Living is dying. Every day you live is a step closer to the day you die.
I have long since come to terms with the fact that I will die one day. There are times when I’m doing something — anything — then I imagine how it could suddenly go wrong and kill me.
When I cut vegetables, I wonder what will happen if I accidentally cut through an artery. No doctor could possibly save me. When a tanker full of gas passes by, I wonder what will happen if it suddenly explodes. Will everyone in my neighborhood, including me, die then? When I’m climbing a staircase, I ask myself what will happen if I suddenly slip and break my neck.
Morbid, you may say. But I’m so used to these thoughts I’m completely desensitized to them. To me, they’re just like those writing prompts I think about when I’m crafting a story.
I imagine how easily I could die, replaying all the possible scenarios. I see my death as game over in the game called life. I see my death the same way I see the death of my fictional characters — meaningful to the people who love and care about you, yet meaningless in the grand scheme of things.
If I’m terrified of death, then it’s for reasons you might think of as ridiculous.
Maybe I’m full of shit. Maybe I haven’t had a ‘real death experience’ to make me understand that death is not as trivial as I make it sound.
But, if there’s one thing I am absolutely certain of, then it is this: if I die today, I have no regrets.
Zero.
A year ago, I would have thought differently. Had I died a year ago, I don’t think I would ever rest in peace. My regrets would forever haunt me.
But today? Absolutely not. I mean, I haven’t achieved all my goals yet. But I’ll be at peace with myself if I die right now. Why?
Because I’m working diligently every day toward achieving my goals.
Today, I no longer sit back wishing I had something while refusing to work for it. I no longer do the same tiring old shit while expecting different results. No. That’s the old me, and dying would have made me a grumpy, miserable ghost.
Today, I’m not only dreaming but also taking action to make those dreams a reality. Today, my life has meaning because I’m living it on my own terms.
If I die today, I’ll rest peacefully, knowing that I gave it my all.
So, as you’re alive right now, trudging toward your inevitable demise, I ask you this:
Are you living the life you’ve always wanted? Or are you dying even before you’re dead?
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