If You Die, I Will Love You Forever and Always

It’s getting closer to my 69th birthday, which is this Tuesday. I will be the same age as Mark was when he died. Sadly, I finally caught up to him. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about death, mortality, whether a higher power exists, and the soul. 

I began wondering about death when I was almost old enough to understand it. My first experience with death was my father’s mother dying when I was very young. I only recall her not being much of a grandmother to me. I remember my Uncle Fintz dying of a brain tumor in his mid-forties; I can always picture him smiling at me so lovingly a few weeks before he died. He was the youngest of my mother’s six brothers and her best friend, only two years older than she was. I was not allowed to go to the funeral because I was a child, only 10, so I stayed at home watching my grandmother weep inconsolably for her child. 

I couldn’t bear the thought of my cousin, Jane, who was my age, not having her father anymore. This made me imagine my own father dying. And my father was old. He married my much younger mother when he was 44 and was 47 when I was born, older even than Uncle Fintz when he died. As a result of all this, I spent most of my childhood and a good portion of my young adult life with an irrational fear that my own father would die. I literally would lay in bed many nights and wait for the sound of our garage door opening, signaling my father was home from a late night at work, and then breathe a sigh of relief, finally letting myself fall asleep. My father died at 98 years and 9 months old. His mind went a few years before that so I mourned him way before his body left the physical world. It was not the way I imagined I would mourn him. 

When my mother died, 9 years ago, it was unbearable for me. I couldn’t imagine the world, my world, without her in it. I joined a grief group, but that didn’t help at all. At one point in my despair, I heard about a model of meditation called TMS that could help me deal with my grief. It was very expensive, but I signed up anyway, and I was coached in how to meditate.  It wasn’t the first time I dabbled in meditation. I had practiced Buddhism for a while and I would chant daily. That practice really helped me see the world differently and understand death differently, as well. TMS caused me to see myself differently and ultimately I learned how to live in this world without my mother.  

I continued my practice of meditating daily until Mark got sick and then, after he died, I stopped completely. I kept promising myself I would go back to it, but for some reason, I just couldn't. Sometimes your journey in life puts you in places where you find exactly what you need and that has happened with my meditation journey. Coincidently, one of my neighbors in my community started doing sessions teaching residents how to meditate. He has been practicing most of his life; he even learned TMS when he was a college student. He is so generous with his knowledge, time, and resources. I am learning so much from him about life and energy and a higher power and even death. He shared a small pamphlet with me about what happens to our loved ones when they die, which has given me so much comfort. I am slowly getting back into my meditation practice, but now I feel like I have a better understanding of the importance of it.  

One thing I regret deeply was that Mark and I never had a conversation about what we would do if either of us died. He watched me bring life into the world twice, but never prepared me for his own death. And I reacted to his terminal illness as something I was unwilling to accept. I wouldn't and didn’t even give him permission to die. The last thing I actually said to him was, “If you die, I will kill you.” I should have said, “If you die, I will love you forever and always.” 

We need to change how we talk about death in our culture. We need to plan and prepare our loved ones to exist in a world without us physically being there while never letting go of memories and all the things they learned from us. Weeping for them is not honoring their life; it’s only nurturing our grief. 

I wish I knew what Mark would want for me now that I’m alone, because it would really help me right now. For now, I just have to guess. So, on Tuesday, I will put out the last birthday card he gave me; I’ll wear the “It’s My Birthday” tiara he bought me the year before and I will buy myself flowers because that’s what he would’ve done for me.