Dear Death

A love letter

Dear Death,

Don’t get excited. This isn’t a suicide note. And if I’m honest, it’s not quite a love letter either. Rather, I’m writing to tell you that I’m trying to fall in love with you. I hope one day to know you well, to accept you for who you are, and to try not to change you. Maybe, I’ll even greet you with a serene smile one day. That’s love, after all, isn’t it?

You’re not making it easy, though.

I don’t like you much these days, and I’ve even articulated from time to time that I hate you. You can’t blame me, can you? You left me relatively untouched until age 35, and then wham, you came out of nowhere with a left hook. I mean seriously, Death, my mom? At her age? And after I had just given her a granddaughter? That came off as deeply insensitive if not downright malicious. How could I love you after that?

When I was quite little, I used to think I had some control over you. Around age 10, I moved away from the imaginative realm of unicorns and fairies and began to learn about the darkness in the world: cancer, the Holocaust, kidnapping, nuclear war (this was the 80s, after all). Never the praying type, I grew so fearful that I resorted to prayer every night for months, asking God to protect each and every loved one from, well, you. And when they didn’t disappear, my sense of power over you increased.

Deep down, though, I knew I couldn’t keep you away forever, and around that same age, I understood that my mother would one day die. When I snuggled her and held on tight, I told her, “You can’t die!” I don’t recall how she responded, but she didn’t say, “Okay.”

Now my daughter — you remember, the one my mother barely knew? — says the same to me. At night, I climb into her top bunk and locate her stuffed penguin from the jumble of covers. I nestle him under her arm and arrange her blankets as she prefers, tucked around the edges, as best I can.

We lay together and look at the rainbow projected on the wall, and often, I’m overcome by joy, love, and sorrow all at once. Joy because I made this incredible person who still wants me to snuggle her and who awes me with her compassion, beauty, and creativity. Love because, when I kiss her where her hair meets her forehead (she smells of nutmeg, warm olive oil, and a sweater just out of the dryer), my heart fills my chest. And sorrow because of you, Death. I don’t want her to die one day, and I don’t want her to live through my passing.

And then she turns to me. “Mommy,” she says to me, “I love you so much! You can’t die!”

My eyes grow hot and my brain becomes fuzzy, but I know how to respond. I say, “It’s so hard, honey, but you’ll get through it and have joy in your life once you do. Look at me. I miss my mom, but I have joy and laughter in my life.” She never looks assured.

I wasn’t prepared when you came for my mom, Death. None of us were. Our family fell into denial because there was so much about her illness to fervently deny, and due to that, we squandered the last few precious months. By the time I had the presence of mind to ask my mom questions I’d never have a chance to ask again, her brain, addled with massive doses of painkillers, was too clouded to assemble a coherent reply.

Would it have helped if I’d been prepared? If I already knew you, respected you, and accepted you? Would the grieving process have been shorter, with fewer peaks and troughs, if I’d had a relationship with you, Death? Growing up, I had no strong religious foundation to help me build that relationship with you, and my parents rarely spoke of you. Maybe we were all in denial all along.

In the evenings, I lay in my daughter’s bed wondering if I’m creating another ill-prepared person when you visit her, Death. When she was a young child, I’ve grieved outwardly for my own mother. Annually I acknowledge both my mom’s birthday by cooking her best recipes and her death anniversary by lighting candles and opening photo albums. But I wonder if I talk with my children enough about you. Driving in the car this morning with my daughters, the Flaming Lips sang, “Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die?” and I lowered the volume.

What would it be like to love and accept you, Death? I can’t bring you coffee in the morning, rub your stiff shoulders, or switch from Great British Baking Show to your favorite show. Perhaps I can tend to our relationship like I do with my spouse. With him, I do my best to broach hard conversations, honestly communicate my worst tendencies and mistakes, know when to give, when to take, and when to compromise.

Above all, I think about him.

I notice when my husband appears grumpy after a work meeting; I understand how important his new running habit has become and how to support it; I anticipate how he might react to a challenge in our relationship.

Maybe, Death, the first step in loving you is noticing you. If I keep you locked away or if I try to pray you away, you don’t disappear anyway. Maybe I must think about you, wonder about you, keep you present. After that, well, I don’t know what comes. I just know I need time.

Please give me time, Death, to do this work. And please, don’t throw me off-kilter with another sucker punch. Then maybe the next time I see you I won’t feel so afraid. Perhaps I’ll give you a serene smile.

Love, Stephanie