Do you ever think about your own death? I do.
My first contact with the other world occurred when I was much younger. The long drawn out battle of older family members with disease, ending with uneasy passages to the underworld was curious to witness.
At my grand father’s memorial service for example, my cousins and I were grouped together on the second floor of the patriarch’s house. My older cousin was given the task of keeping the rest of us sufficiently entertained with the goal of keeping us away from the funeral.
I of course was not the kind of child to buy into that kind of fake imprisonment. I planned my escape carefully (pulled my socks up and my skirt in place, I didn’t want to trip and fall) and excused myself from the room with the “intention” of going to the rest room. Within 2 seconds I sprinted down stairs and my older cousin had no chance of stopping me. Once downstairs, I was shocked to see everyone in black and crying. It was frightening.
That experience was followed by a few more similar episodes.
One time, my parents decided to leave me with a friend instead of taking me with them to a funeral. Wise decision I would say. I woke up at my friend’s house and realized I had been duped! My parents had abondonned me knowing full well I really wanted to go to the funeral. This made me very angry. How dare they?!
I’ve even seen a couple of dead bodies. At least I think I have. I can’t be sure because my imagination and memories could be playing tricks on me. It was such a long time ago.
Needless to say, my first brushes with death were unpleasant. Complicated futher without a doubt by the religious ceremonies I observed. We were not a religious family but a funeral is a funeral and religious references where every where.
I’ve had a few brushes with death myself. Although I was scared in the heat of the moment, the episodes eventually turned into funny jokes about my clumsiness or the situations I manage to get myself into. Note to self, never hitch hike with your friends after a night of bar hoping. And if you do, and you survive, never ever admit it to your parents. No matter how guilty you feel, stick with the story “I was studying with Sanaz”. You may not survive your parents’ wrath.
Recently, I’ve become very conscious of my mortality. And I’m afraid. I really don’t want to die. Every time I think about it, I worry about how my family will deal with an untimely death. What about my lover? I don’t want him to be alone for the rest of his life but I’m not sure if I want him to move on quickly either.
Or, what would happen with my stuff? Even simple things such as emails are on my mind. What if I were to die today? Would anyone check my mail for me? I hope not, I have some pretty embarassing shit sitting in my inbox. Can’t email addresses, or ir.com logins, automatically self destruct when a death certificate is signed?
You may think I’m crazy for taking a natural human fear of mortality to the point of wondering about my email or my dirty socks. But I ask you, how else can you come to terms with what will eventually happen to you? What kind of arrangements are you supposed to make? Floral arrangements? Sista please. My relatives can deal with that. It’ll keep their mind off things. I’m concerned with the personal impact of my death.
I can’t imagine being burned or put in a coffin. Nafaseh adam migireh oon too.
The most terrible part of my ordeal is that I can’t bring myself to donate my body parts post mortem. How selfish is that? But so far, I haven’t been able to do it.
Obviously, I can’t prepare everything and wait for death. That’s exactly the issue here. I really don’t want to die. Ever. I want to stay young, healthy and happy…forever. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels this way.
For now, zaboonam laal, goosheh sheytoon kar, tof tof.
