Fear of Death

A former yoga teacher of ours, S. I'll call him, recently discovered that he has a particularly virulent form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma.  Back in January, his oncologist gave him less than a year to live unless he started aggressive chemo-therapy immediately.  S., who's always eaten organic and kept himself in superb physical condition, gave his life over to searching out a less toxic alternative.  He thought he found it in a natural treatment center in Arizona, was there through the Spring, but got sicker.  Now he's back and has been through his first chemotherapy course and faces three more.   

When my husband and I first heard about S.'s diagnosis, back in April I'd say, we couldn't believe it.  S. is only 42, and the fittest individual we've ever known.  From the downward dog yoga position, he could ratchet himself into a headstand and then up into a handstand, holding each pose for long, graceful minutes without quivering.  He took great care with our breathing, showing us how to syncronize it with our movements.  We'd live for his relaxation sessions at the end, where we'd lie on our backs and feel the reward of a quieting pulse beneath our slowing breath, sinking into that lightheaded zone between sleeping and waking.   

And although S. could always take us unerringly to that zone, showing us its clear dependence on the concentration and effort we'd just put into our physical workout, he was strikingly humble about anything spiritual, claiming that that was the part of yoga he needed help on.  My husband and I took many classes with him, and he always made us feel that we were learning together, all students if not pioneers.   

   When S. came back to our area from Arizona last April or May, I waited to contact him.  And then I found myself waiting longer, increasingly reluctant to step back into his life.  I just didn't know what I'd see, what he'd be like, what I'd have to struggle with, so I just put it off.   

   I've gone through my uncle's and mother's deaths in what I thought was an unflinching way, so I was surprised at my reluctance to contact S.  I didn't think it had anything to do with death, didn't think I was reminded of my own mortality or anything like that.  I didn't know what my hesitation was all about, but I was increasingly ashamed of it. 

Finally, just last week, I e-mailed him.  And the next day, he called.  He and his girlfriend were nearby; could they stop in? 

   And it was only then, maybe ten minutes before they arrived, that I finally recognized what had kept me from him.  I was scared!  There was no denying it.  I was afraid to see him, afraid of the deterioration that might be there, afraid of getting close to it.  Simple as that.  Going through it with my mother and uncle, and even with my husband's father, I hadn't gotten any further than this: I was afraid of death.   

   

The fear began to subside when S. walked through the door.  He was pale, bald, and scrawny, and his voice wobbled from clearing his throat often when he talked. But he was there, in front of me, his hug as firm as ever.  And I found myself gradually pulled from the months-long fear of seeing him into the realization that as long as he was there, in front of me, I had the comfort of his not dying.   

   

   We talked stupidly of physical things, details of the house - which he'd never been to before, the layout of our kitchens, how we had our stoves in the same place in relation to our sinks, that kind of thing, and then he started to catch me up on his ordeal. I told him he didn't have to go into it, that he's probably tired of talking about it, but he seemed to need to reconnect by making sure I knew what he'd been doing.   

 

Now we've made plans to get together next week, and I'm really looking forward to it.  I realize now that that initial visit was a threshhold, an uncertainty to overcome.  I'd made it an obstacle by completing S.'s story-arc in my mind before he had a chance to present himself in front of me.  As soon as I heard about the cancer, on some deep level below my awareness, I went straight to resolution: death.   

   

   But once I saw him, the fact that he's alive overwhelmed that outcome, and I could begin to see that that's why he came to see me.  He wanted to show me that he's alive, struggling. Because on some level, he must know that people are completing his story, seeing him as a walking dead man, and shrinking from him.  That might be why the spur-of-the moment visit, the "Oh, I was just driving by, wondered if you're around," to force us over the threshhold.  And reconnecting on the other side is simply seeing him there in front of me, knowing that we share the same struggle, have only the present moment to know we're alive.  Any one of us could die at any moment.  So to surge forward to someone's death, to think of their story as already done, is to rob them of another kind of life: of connection - the life they have in our minds.   

 

When S. and I hugged goodbye, I said, "You know, we're all scared by this."  He looked at me and said, "I can see that."  And then, to soften it, "I'm learning that."                     

Comments

[Tabor]

I think you have just answered some questions for me about myself and various responses I have had to similar situations. I was terrified to fly out to see my sister when she was dying of cancer. I don't think it was the death I feared. To me death is just another state of time. It was the pain--mine and hers--- that I was afraid to face. But I didn't realize that until after reading your post above.

[Dan]

I understand your fear of his diagnosis...

About six months after Gee and I were engaged, she was diagnosed with stage three metastic pancreatic cancer. Her father asked if I wanted to cancel our engagement, just after Gee was diagnosed. My response was to tell him, "Gee having cancer doesn't change who she is, how I feel about her, or what she has come to mean to me. And, why in God's name, would I abandon the woman I love, just when she needs me most." We were married on November 4, 2000, just as we had originally planned. Gee lost her fight with cancer on June 11, 2001, just seven months and one week after we got married.

Illness doesn't change who the person is, so accept them for who they are and always have been, and show your support and love for them. It is what they really need, and often it is not what they get.

[Chancy]

Don't you think it is more difficult to see someone as young as S have to go through a debilitating disease such as this. I am glad you saw him and feel at peace now.

[Cecile Christensen]

We had a young woman with terminal liver cancer on our boat last weekend. She could easily have kept that fact to herself, but, like S., she shared her story. We hadn't known her before the trip, but felt linked with her afterwards in a way that I haven't felt before.

Maybe it was her candor. Maybe it was her bravery. Maybe it was her outlook of absorbing everything she could from the glorious summer day with us and from the time she had left.

Whatever happens with her and with her illness, I'll be reminded of L. everytime we return to that dive site.

[Terri]

What poignant writing, Mary Lee. Death continues to be a scary subject for many people, but it sounds like you recently took a huge step inside yourself to understand it more. Bravo for you!
Strange enough....I recently also blogged on the subject of death in relation to my dad and a very unusual experience I had when he passed.

[Rain]

I followed up your blog from Ronni Bennett's and read down through it to this post. I hope your friend makes it. Some do beat the odds but as you said, we are all on our way there, just a question of when, not if. It's hard though to see someone young go before we think it's their time. And you never know, he might beat it. Some do and attitude is a lot of it.