I Think About Death

I think about death a lot.

I've thought about it in the last 118 months since I heard my daughter would die young.

What is it going to be like for her? What is it going to be like for me? Am I going to know when the last kiss is the last kiss?

I know I'll regret a lot. I acknowledged years ago that regret is inevitable, a close companion of grief. I have made a point of not torturing myself when I make decisions based on the "am I going to regret this later" thought process. It doesn't do any good to prepare because there

will

be regret regardless.

I hope that I can somehow keep her from pain. That is my biggest fear. What is it going to be like? Is she going to struggle to breath? Struggle to swallow her own saliva? Is she going to drown in her own fluids, terrified, scared and desperate to breath?

Is she going to look in my eyes, pleading for help when there's none I can give her? Am I going to run away? Will I be brave enough to stay with her through all of it?

I asked a nurse what the end was like. Not morbid curiosity, but for help. Help me not be afraid. Help me know what is normal, help me know what can be helped, what can be soothed, what can be done.

There is a desperation in grief. Wanting so badly to be out of it, but knowing in this situation, getting out of the grief of watching her die is no relief at all because on the heels is the grief of her being gone.

What should we do with her body? Her shell once she's not there anymore? I think I want to keep her ashes somehow.  I think having a piece of her would be magical. A solid something to hold on to when everything else was just hers and not

her

. I'm desperate to keep her with me and I hope that heaven, whatever that is, keeps her for me until I can be with her again.

Waking up from the nightmare of death is the nightmare of living without. Without her smile, without her kicking legs, without her golden hair, without her perfect stare, without her wet hands, without her tiny feet, without her fuzzy arms, without her bruised up knees, without her sharp finger and toe nails, without her ear dimple, without her crooked smile, without her gulpy giggle, without her straight-legged stair descent, without her stinky diapers, without her noisy eating, without her sipping sounds, without her soft belly button, without her beautiful forehead, without her delightful eyebrows, without her little button nose, without her full pink lips, without her knobby knees, without her big tummy, without that little knob on her spine, without her skinny shirt-slipping shoulders, without her leaning into me, without her grabbing my hand, without her pulling her knees up into the chair.

It's true that I think about death a lot, but I think about life a lot more.