Why I’m not afraid to die.
I woke up this morning coughing up blood. Greeting the morning with a dry heave that came with the possibility of the end of my days.
I thought, “Oh no, so you’re coming back for me. That’s okay.” Referring to the possibility and realness of Death at my doorstep. I’ve been through this before.
Four years ago, I came down with a respiratory shindig. That time my symptoms were much worse and more severe. I spent the night unable to lie down because it would restrict my breathing. My breathing was, of course, labored. It was like trying to take a full breath through a straw with jello in it.
Each breath I would take required mindfulness and intention, so I would remain calm. I told myself. I cried that night after I coughed blood. I thought, “This is it.” From there, I entered the process of accepting.
I’d consistently grown up hearing, “Tomorrow ain’t promised to you.” Of course, after seeing my mother die at 45 years, the meaning of that saying from childhood was renewed. But the external personal experience of my Mom’s passing was still outside of my own internal personal experience of being faced with Death.
I could barely walk; every step I took required so much energy. I had to slide out of bed and crawl to get to the restroom. Even then, I had to take breaks every few movements to really focus on getting a good enough breath to make it a few more feet. I wouldn’t allow it to be harrowing. I couldn’t.
I learned that in many cases, the difference between life and Death was panic. I decided that if I were going to die young — I was 27 at the time — it would be peaceful and full of fucking grace. So, I took my time and gave myself the space to crawl to the bathroom.
At first, I was scared. I was living abroad, managing a dive center. I’m a scuba dive instructor with a degree in diving business and technology. I’d centered my entire life around being in and around the water and “never ever holding my breath.” I knew how to remain calm in situations that would otherwise invite panic. I used every bit of my training to get me through this experience.
I had a roommate at the time, but I couldn’t make it to their room to let them know I was struggling. For them, what may have sounded like a roommate with a mild cold, for me, was a silent struggle and reconciliation with the life I’d lived thus far.
When I made it to the toilet to relieve myself, it was a victory. A small victory I’d always taken for granted. A triumph I got to sit at for what seemed like an hour because I was too tired to crawl back to my bed. I couldn’t lie down anyway. I eventually mustered up the energy to get out of the restroom.
I decided I didn’t want to be inside if I was going to die.
I wanted to see the beauty of the place I called home. My Earth Mother. I wanted to be outside, so I could talk to my “God.”
I had a beautiful space; I lived on the fourth floor in a 2/1 apartment with a shared balcony. My view was of the rolling foresty hillside. It was lush and green and teeming with life. Oh, and the orchestra of birdsongs in synchronicity with the sounds of the ocean was mesmerizing. I’d just installed a beautiful multicolored hammock out there a few weeks prior. Divine timing, I’d say.
I made my way to my hammock. I once wrote a poem about finding love in a hammock, and I think it ironic that’s where I’d discover a profound love for the divinity in and of all beings and things. I finally made it and climbed inside, allowing myself to be cradled by the softness of the fabric.
I can’t remember if I’d brought a blanket out with me, but I don’t recall being cold. I was a comfortable as I was going to get. I didn’t have to hold my body up, which took so much energy. I relaxed my muscles and could be in an upright position that allowed me to breathe with what little capacity I had available. As I rested there, I allowed myself to reminisce and reflect on the life I’d lived.
I started to come to terms with what was happening to me. I spoke aloud to God, but in whispers, because that is what my lungs would allow. I thanked the Omnipresence for a story worth sharing. I gave gratitude for all of the experiences of my life, the perceived good and perceived bad. I thought every single person I’d known and prayed for them; I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you. I was thankful for each of them being a blessing to my life.
I prayed for my Grandmother, a woman who sacrificed so much of herself to care for so many others. A woman who’d laid her firstborn child to rest during her own elder years. A woman who always craved to see the world but lived vicariously through her adventurous Grandbaby. I prayed for her to have strength in losing me and for her to be at ease knowing I died having lived a fulfilling life that our Ancestors couldn’t dream of— and that I’d been blessed with.
I was honored with the expansion of my consciousness that night. Once I admitted to whatever fear of the unknown left in my heart, I became free. The tempo of the night began to shift as the sky lightened and the birdsongs commenced. I could finally take in all of the beauty around me without the anxiety of tomorrow. At that moment, I was no longer afraid; I’d forgotten to be. For the first time, I experienced what it’s like to be fully in the present moment.
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