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I hate this question because it admits of many answers that each have some sense, if not certainty, to offer.
There are persons who feel that it’s morbid to think about it, a hindrance to engagement with life. There are persons who feel the exact opposite—there always are, on any question, and we as a species could do better at seeing this as a sign of hope rather than a signal for war—and pointedly face their fear of mortality, become devoted to risky behaviors from climbing mountains to snorting coke because you’re going to die anyway, deal with it by using the fear for what it’s good for, fuel. There are persons who have had their dearly loved ones die and their answer is that there’s no hope of their ever thinking about anything else. Others see death as cosmic drama—the gateway to eternal salvation, damnation or reincarnation. Others look forward to death because they’re convinced it’s lights- out oblivion, a blissful rest from life. Still others say that we’re all dead already and just don’t know it, the afterlife is here and now and you can call it heaven, hell, the bardo, the liminal, the astral, the timeless dream in which the universe become us and us it. A sizable subgroup avoids thinking of their own deaths but relishes thinking of the deaths of those they hate.
All of these views are thoughts I’ve had, but none of them quite answer the question I’ve posed with its focus on when. No one would seriously hold that any person who has come of age could manage never to think about death, so we all would agree that we have to think about it sometimes. To what standard shall we set our mental clocks so that we might devote ourselves efficiently to the task? But what do I mean by efficient and what has it to do with when? I mean by efficient that sort of thinking—and I include feeling as a particularly wrenching sort of thinking—that enables us to live well with the knowledge of death. Now, as just what so enables us is intertwined with our time of life, we return to when as the crucial point. When? For how long and how often? And should it ever stop?
By seeing the complexity of the question I am trying to spare myself the problem of answering it. The complexity itself is the answer, I could say. As few of us know when we are going to die and those few—the terminal and the condemned—who do know are likely to think of death without wondering if they’ve found the proper time, that leaves the feckless majority of us not knowing or wishing to know when we will die and not knowing when we should start or stop thinking about it.
But I think that many of us think about it incessantly without knowing we do, if not unconsciously than implicitly, and always with a mind to how we should spend the time we have, a sack of coins that seems never to empty when we are not thinking of death. Joy and boredom both make time burgeon. So we choose certain jobs, certain loves, even certain sorrows, because given the time we have we naturally choose what we can’t escape.
I recently visited my daughter Sarah in Seattle, where she is living with her fiancé–they are both in their early twenties–and wondering where their lives might best lead. When she goes about her day she sometimes has to drive over Lake Union upon the venerable, girded and cantilevered Aurora Bridge—six tight lanes of two-way traffic with no central barriers to take the brunt if a driver happens to wander into the opposite flow. One spacy swerve in any of the lanes of the Aurora Bridge—on which if you head south will lead you to the Pacific Highway and ultimately all the way to Mexico—when traffic is moderate or heavy which is every day and cars would crush each other one by one for hundreds of yards. I should add that, since its construction in 1932, it has been a favored site for suicides—over 230, second amongst U. S. bridges only to the Golden Gate in San Francisco.
But the old Aurora Bridge with its rattling compression can make you think about death even if you hope to stay alive. That’s the effect it has on my daughter Sarah, who would avoid the Aurora if she could, but given the algae-like spread of the Seattle streets the lost time she put into avoidance would haunt her as the silly cost of fearing to think about death. Sarah does not want to be driven by fear and so she drives the Aurora and does her time thinking.
I have gone along with her on this ride—it’s just the two of us—expressly to watch her and talk with her as she makes the crossing. She’s material to keep my hand moving over this page you now read. She has my brown curly hair only lots more of it. She also has my penchant for anxiety and I would not have wished that for her. I ask how this bridge-drive is impacting her and she says she has to concentrate on her driving to keep her nerves from setting her on fire.
Does she think there is life after death? She does not. What she wants when she is dying is to be able to say that there is nothing left to be done, her design projects completed, her loved ones protected. But she acknowledges the paradox that, were someone she loved dying, a solace to her would be if they would ask her to do something yet unfinished for them. That would take her out of missing them for the time it took to do it.
Suicide? She doesn’t want to commit it. I breathe again. But in her young crowd the question of preferred method comes up now and then—it’s their way of thinking of death, I’m guessing, with the fantasy of control over their own demise without yet having undergone the agony that makes you yearn for an end—and she felt she needed to come up with an answer. Helium seemed to be easy as such things went. All the while Sarah’s face is serious, her espresso eyes fixed and galactic, the mask of a goddess of life and of death who has no choice but to dwell and rule in both realms.
How afraid are you of death? How often do you think of it when you’re not on this goddamned bridge? Finally I put these questions point-blank and she senses my fear along with hers. She says she tries not to think about it but she does, not a lot, but it never goes far away, she doesn’t think it does for most people.
We have crossed the Aurora Bridge and I am now far more unsettled than Sarah because, at my bidding, my daughter has talked about death to me and I feel I have spurred her to show fear that I wanted to see for the tawdry sake of answering the question of when. But I don’t want Sarah to have any fear of death, none. I want her to be free from every mental crevasse I have fallen into, death’s certainty being an especially deep one. I also don’t want to lie to her when she reads this by hiding the fact that I often imagine happily a future world in which she is vibrant and I am gone. I meditate to accept impermanence but I pray that Sarah’s death will come after I’m gone. I would love it if we could see each other in the afterdeath realm or reincarnate as puppies in the same litter, but I suspect what will ensue is a chain of genetics that will dance through descendants as it has through us. And all of them will think about death and none of them solely when they chose.
So the answer to when might as well be never once you’ve thought about it hard. How else to avoid crossing lanes by recalling we’re tiny sacs of life knocking about without and within, a car or a heart valve could veer and kill us. Our souls would have no idea if they were staying or going as death happened, they would have expected us to have thought about that but we haven’t, not clearly, nothing we have ever thought about seems to answer to this death we will find ourselves dying when there is still a great deal to do and our loved ones need us, loved ones always do. Think of them and not death while you can.
Lawrence Sutin is the author of a novel, When to Go Into the Water (Sarabande 2009), two memoirs, A Postcard Memoir (Graywolf 2000) and Jack and Rochelle: A Holocaust Story of Love and Resistance (Graywolf), two biographies–of Philip K. Dick and Aleister Crowley, and a historical work on the coming of Buddhism to the West. In addition, his erasure books can be seen at Lawrencesutin.com. He teaches in the creative writing programs of Hamline University and the Vermont College of Fine Arts.
4 Responses to “When Is A Good Time to Think About Death? | Essay — Lawrence Sutin”
- nance van winckel says:February 9, 2015 at 12:04 pm
Oh Larry, this is beautiful, and yes, it’s been much on my mind. I feel so close to this subject, increasingly as IT gets closer to me. It seems somehow necessary to BE close to endings, but perhaps also to beginnings. Thank you for this, bro!Reply
- Sophfronia Scott says:February 9, 2015 at 2:18 pm
Larry, thank you for this beautiful rumination. Since you have read some of what I’ve written about my father, I will tell you two things concerning him involving bridges and death.
1.) He sometimes went out of his way to drive me and my siblings in our van over a particular bridge crossing Lorain’s Black River. He would say of us, “You have to take crazy people over the water. It eases their mind.” This has stayed with me in my bridge crossings, especially if the bridge is new to me or frighteningly huge. It’s something reminding me (and probably without my realizing it most of the time) to find comfort in crossing the water and that sensibility overrides any fear that may arise.
2.) Daddy died when I was 24. And while I consider myself a person of faith with all the comfort about facing death that comes with such faith, there was something about my father’s death that kind of settled the issue for me. There was no more reason to be afraid because if Daddy did it, I could do it too. And if I do have any trouble with it, he’s going to be around somehow to help. He was a big strong powerful presence in my life–much in the same way I’m sure you are in your daughter’s life–and my hope is to carry this strength with me into death as I try to do in life.
Oh, and when do I think about death? Probably every day. But always, I hope, with the sense that the thoughts are reminding me to live life fully.Reply
- melissacronin says:February 9, 2015 at 6:15 pm
Gorgeous piece, Larry. I used to live the life of a thrill seeker: rock climbing, back country skiing, and more, but that all changed after an old man mowed me down in his Buick and the doctors said, “You were lucky you survived.” So, yes, now I think about death a lot, probably every day, not that I’m afraid of it, but curious about it: what will it feel like? Will it feel like anything at all? The moment the Buick struck me, everything turned black and silent. Months later, I wondered: if this is how it happens – death – great! I can handle that: no pain, no sensation. Nothing. But maybe I’m lying; maybe I am afraid and that’s why I hope for death to come dressed in black silence. As for when death will come, I have no idea, but something tells me I have at least a few more lives left in me.
Thanks for sharing. Love it!Reply
- Pauline Holdstock says:February 12, 2015 at 1:43 pm
Oh, but I Iove this beautiful essay, the best thing I’ve had read about the presence of death — and I think about death a lot. I love its directness. I love the lovely frame of the bridge and the daughter who keeps Lawrence Sutin – and us too – from falling into the black hole. Most of all I love the experience of being hot-wired to another mind, something that only happens when the writing is pure.Reply
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