Death as a friend

I’ve been thinking lately, that there is a taboo around death. Or probably many. But one I keep coming back to: that we are supposed to want to live, no matter how we are actually doing. Especially those of us who are chronically ill.

I feel like there is this idea that when death is breathing down your neck, you reach some special kind of gratitude for life. Almost something romanticized. As if we walk around with a hidden insight, a quiet wisdom about what life really is.

And sure. It is easier now to prioritize what truly matters and let go of the rest.

But the reason is still the same: I am sick 24/7.

Every waking hour reminds me. My body is fighting me. My head feels like cotton. My brain is constantly trying to navigate and make decisions. It is a constant struggle. There is no neutral state, no pause where everything just goes quiet.

I have to prioritize. There is no other option.

And I have to try to live. I mean really live. Because you are not supposed to waste the life you have been given. And I try. Quite a lot actually.

But honestly, it is hard.

I love life.

I love being alive.

At the same time, I find myself wondering how much gratitude a person is expected to feel for life itself. How much we are supposed to be able to love life, when the actual experience of living is painful or exhausting.

If an older person who has lived a “full” life says they feel ready, no one raises an eyebrow. If I were to say the same thing, I am pretty sure the reaction would be different.

But what is a full life? Who gets to decide that?

I am not ready to die yet.

But the thought of living like this for another ten years feels completely unbearable. Inhuman.

I am grateful for the life I have had so far. I have lived intensely, loved and felt deeply, had so many experiences. And it is not over yet. I still do it. I have not given up.

But I wish it was not so difficult to talk about death.

I wish we could normalize it.

I understand that the taboo is about grief, loss, and all the heavy things we would rather not step into. We do not want to go there, into the darkness.

My perspective is a little different.

I am starting to see death as a friend.

Not something I long for, but a presence that means I am not trapped forever. A boundary, an ending, or a new beginning, that also holds a kind of mercy.

And that feels a little lonely.

Probably because it is.