Intense Fear of Death
I think it’s normal for most people to have a healthy fear of death. Sure, adrenaline junkies may have a little less than most. I think I fall on the opposite end that see-saw.
In 2013 when I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, my healthy fear put on the mask of a terrifying monster and has been chasing me ever since. When I describe MS to people, I tell them it’s an incurable, progressive disease of the central nervous system. Incurable. Progressive. Those words scare the hell out of me.
I managed to settle into a routine with my disease for a while. Once I found the right medication, I actually had days that I would forget I had MS. Once in a while the fatigue would consume me or I’d have a little vision trouble; nothing a quick round of steroids wouldn’t cure.
Then it happened. I relapsed and my disease rushed over me so quick and hard, it was like a tsunami swallowing an entire city. I’ll spare you the ugly details (or leave them for another time) but suffice it to say it was the most terrifying six months of my life. I saw panic in my husband’s eyes and heard it in his voice. I saw fear in the eyes of my children. My best friend drove from Orlando, Fl to Shreveport, La — alone — just to see me and try to help in some small way. My Mom dropped her entire life in a matter of days to fly to Shreveport. She didn’t leave my side for three solid months. I needed all of these people, but it also felt like I was living through my own wake. Early in this episode I genuinely felt like I was slipping away.
Since my recovery I have these very real and terrifying thoughts of the world moving on. I panic because I don’t know if I can still watch what’s going on or if I’m magically born into another body and begin again. What if the rumors of Heaven and big magical gates is real? My thoughts feel so real they’re almost tangible. I realize how insanely arrogant it is to think, “how on earth can the world continue to spin when I’m no longer here?” But that’s exactly what I think.
I suppose what I fear the most is the unknown. If I just knew what death was like, I could prepare for it. Pack snacks or something. I don’t know. What I’m sure of is that my fear regularly propels me into motion. I’m not ready for death. I haven’t accomplished enough, done enough, loved enough, seen enough, and I still haven’t put my clean clothes away. Who the fuck puts the clean clothes away when I’m gone?
So when these thoughts come and the panic takes over, and it’s more often than I’d like to admit, I sometimes have to literally shake it off. I stand and bounce around for a sec, shake my arms, take a couple of deep breaths, and remember that to be afraid of death means I’m still alive.
I should really put that laundry away…
