Reading Death

Death is a fleeting concept. Perhaps we were born crying because we knew that we would die someday in this unpleasant world. But during childhood I had certainly not thought of death much, especially of my own. Sure, sometimes I might make the joke that ‘we’ll all die’, but I didn’t know what that meant. 

My gradual process of coming into terms with death: 

1. As a child, I heard of a neighbor’s mother’s death. That was more than 10 years ago. I don’t remember reacting much to it—just a fleeting sense of uneasiness as I heard my parents talk about it. I had never seen her, after all. 

2. My dog died. Or rather, my family and my dog. That was around 7 years ago. I cried, then, not because I knew death, but because I knew I would never hear the happy bark, see the wagging tail, or feel his smooth hair again. I was sad. But I might have been soothed as I thought about tales of dog heaven and such. 

3. I learned about life-threatening diseases, including cancer in school biology. That was around 5 years ago. I had heard about cancer—a neighbor has survived it, but there were many more stories of the painful deaths and the unexpected diagnosis. Since then, I have consistently had the worry of having such a disease, despite my own chances of getting them being low. This was the first time I have realized the fragility of my own human body and the fact that I had only one body, one life.

4. The death of my grandfather. That was January. Cancer. It was not a surprise—his brain cancer was so advanced that the doctors could not tell where it originated in the first place. It was painful for me and the rest of my family to know that we could do nothing for him as he slowly lost memories, consciousness, and in the end could only lie in bed as the rest of us watched him, mouth open, eyes closed. Though I had been expecting the news, it was still sudden, and struck when I least expected. I did not cry, perhaps I did not even mourn. I did not feel numb. I just knew. 

I came to confront death. No, not death itself, but the truth of death—that those I loved will die, that I will die, and that every human, animal, and living thing will die. I feared and despaired, but resolved to know, to find something that would let me not fear death so much as I do now; to find what, if anything, will happen after death; to find why and how I should live, meaningfully, even if death comes in the end. 

Before, I sat at the dinner tables and listened to the idle chat of classmates of basketball games or some gossip; I walked daydreaming of lives I would never have, stories I would never tell; I played video games and spent time on my phone six hours a day; I worried over past conversations and future tasks. I did whatever I liked, whatever came up. Now, I attempt to sit and eat my food, and leave to do what I believe is more meaningful; I attempt to walk, being more mindful of my steps; I spend more time reading and thinking philosophy, and being in the present when doing work. I knew that I had only one life, and I was determined to find answers. 

I did not ignore or was immune to temptations of the world—I would still sometimes enjoy the brief innocence and break in playing video games, reading books, playing piano, chatting with friends, and watching Youtube. But certainly I was not that purposeless, or even mindless person governed by pleasure and desire. 

Imagine Neo in the matrix: he has seen what does not belong in the world, and he knows of another world beyond his own. How, then, could he have taken the blue pill and gone back to his comfortable life, knowing that truth was to be discovered? How, then, could I choose the video games, the entertainment, and the gossip over the philosophy, the learning, and the paths to truth, knowing that death looms ever above me?