I’ve never been afraid of dying. I don’t pretend to know what comes after our body fails, but I have no reason to believe it could possibly be worse than the struggles I’ve endured in this life. At worse our spirit continues on enduring trials like it’s always endured, at best we reincarnate to start fresh, and with lack of evidence for either we simply stop existing.
The fact is that I’ve spent more of my life wishing for death than not. I see it as a relief. So when I came close to dying last week only to catch Covid-19 while recuperating, I was surprised to discover there is something about dying that scares me. I dread the idea of dying in a hospital. In fact I dread the idea of dying anywhere outside my home. I want to be in my own setting, surrounded by our pets, and being held by my husband. Indoors or outdoors depends on the pets at the time.
I don’t pretend to know what the future holds. Will my chronic conditions deteriorate or will I live a long life at my husband’s side? I don’t know. But I hope it ends on my terms when it does conclude.
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