“How we live is how we die.” Pema Chodron
Since I was a child I’ve been obsessed with death.
I had insomnia for a year when I was three due to nightmares
of my mother dying and leaving me
alone. I’d walk downstairs in my long nightgown, Chrissy doll
in tow, nervous fingers twisting tangled hair to make sure she was
there, reading in her favorite chair or watching TV with Dad.
I remember reading in bed about the life of Anne Frank hiding
with her family in the secret annex, a girl and diary-keeper like me.
But Anne was hunted by hungry Nazis only to die of typhus
at Bergen-Belsen before being freed. The story hit hard for a girl like
me due to my genealogy; inherited guilt and horror from my German
immigrant father and relatives who defended atrocities.
In middle school, I decided I’d be a medical examiner like Quincy,
M.E. on TV. I saw myself working on cold bodies in the morgue
with nothing more than a tape recorder for company and capturing
my brilliant commentary as I put death in order.
To prepare for my future career, I convinced my best friend Eileen
to accompany me to find neighborhood dead things. I’d find sticks to poke
them with while she stood back at a safe distance. I needed to get a close look
at their grizzly innards. She’d shriek with disgust when I did.
I created a game with the same friend and convinced her to play the victim
in “Serial Killer”. I placed her in the front seat of the car in her garage and shut
the lights. Her shrill cries inspired me to grab gardening shears, then I leapt
on the hood with cat-like finesse yelling, I’m gonna slit your throat!
We played this game once.
As an anorexic adolescent in my first college semester dancing on the edges
of self-destruction, I had to take the bus home from upstate New York to be with a friend
to bury her father who died from lung cancer. I was so distraught that when I got in my
mother’s car to go to the wake, I drove
it straight into my father’s where it was blocking the driveway. He was watching
me reversing and came running barefoot in a white T-shirt shouting in German for me to stop
before impact. I sped off without making eye contact, not wanting to be late.
For much of my adult life I’ve been trying to make peace with death. Chodron
says to view life’s end with a mix of curiosity and sense of adventure. So, here’s
the vision I’m manifesting for my crossing-over:
Mom and Dad idling at Death’s curb in a baby blue white leather convertible.
I leap with ease into the back and we go cruising down a scenic coastal highway
while blasting a Best of the 80s playlist to my raucous welcome party.
On the way we wave smiling to the somber Nazi’s doing roadside penance
in the shadow of the stoic Redwoods where they listen to the lessons given by the massive
sunflowers from the ancient book of compassion How to Raise a Heavy Head.
