Releasing My Death Cloud
I am the age my dad was when he died, one week shy of his birthday. My birthday is next month.
I never thought I’d make it to this birthday, and technically, I still haven’t. But as I am reminded by my therapist, I am not my dad. I may have his nose, his bony wrists and knobby knees, his love of books and music…heck, I even have his record collection. But I am not my dad. My mom is 80 years old and in pretty good health. I do have her genes, too. So, maybe it’s safe to make that birthday dinner reservation.
When I think of this whole death scenario, I am not my only concern. I have a six-year-old son. He’s been sick this past week, and for the last four nights he has wanted me to sleep in his room. I lie next to him each night worrying about him waking up to find that I had died in my sleep. I imagine his little face, screaming for my husband, and I start spinning. I worry about him losing me, like I lost my dad. But I was twenty years old, he’s only six. Odds are I’d become a faded memory that he’d have to work pretty hard to hang on to. That thought brings me a comfort that feels a lot like sorrow.
My other concern is for myself. I worry about the torture of losing my son if I die soon. I’m not ready. We haven’t had enough time together. I still have this need to be there for him, to tuck him in, to play, to help with homework, to try to see him safely into adulthood. I know this is what my dad felt; his last words were “I don’t want to go...I don’t want to go.” For me, the uncertainty of what’s next isn’t the most frightening part of dying; it’s leaving the people you love.
I’m pretty sure my Death Cloud materialized around the time of my dad’s diabetes diagnosis. For years, as complications caused by the disease mounted, my Cloud was there lurking, waiting. A few days after my dad’s kidneys shut down and his heart gave out, after his soul had moved on, my Death Cloud took up residence. I live under him, kind of like he’s an upstairs neighbor who stomps around and speaks too loudly any time I start to enjoy the quiet. Even when he’s not acting up, he subtly makes me aware of his presence. He’s become a constant I can count on. After all these years, we’ve come to belong to each other, in a way.
You might think I’m blowing this all out of proportion, but my dad’s parents and his three siblings all died from complications related to diabetes. Three of those five family members died in their 50s.
So yeah, the fact that my GP wasn’t happy with my blood sugar at my most recent visit and wants me to retest in October, to possibly explore meds, has me spooked. From the point my dad started taking meds to the day he died, was a span of around ten years. He was an adult diagnosed with type 1, and things progressed rapidly. And yes, I know meds are more effective now. And no, I have no problem with needles (just ask various tattoo artists working on the Sunset strip in the late 90s). Meds just signal the beginning of a very long and painful end in my mind. They say when you have children, the days are long, but the years are short. It’s the same with death, sometimes.
If I really think about my 5.6 A1C though – 5.6 to 6.9 being prediabetes - I see there may have been a self-fulfilling prophecy at play here. I knew this momentous birthday was looming, but my Death Cloud already had me feeling defeated. So, during the pandemic lockdown, rather than make healthy choices, I chose to do what everyone else was doing. I bought my first stand mixer. I learned to bake. I ate cookies and drank wine. A lot of wine.
In May, after my last blood draw, I got scared. Fear can be a powerful motivator. I started listening to my body, rather than my Cloud. It was like snapping out of a sugar haze. I was back to my old self, eating healthfully, working out, sleeping well. But even as I was enjoying getting reacquainted with my old lifestyle, I couldn’t help but wonder, was the damage already done? I suppose only time, and my next blood draw, will tell.
In June and July, my Death Cloud was present, but with some effort on my part, largely ignored. But you can’t ignore a Death Cloud forever, and with the start of August he has been making himself known. He’s there when I try to sleep, when I look in the mirror, when I am working on a Lego build with my son. It’s those quiet moments. What an opportunist.
And here we are. Making it to my next birthday gets me over the hump. But my Cloud, relentless as he is, has planted the seed that if I make it through this birthday, I will be living on borrowed time. I can already feel the beginning of an ascension to the top of another hump. But what signifies getting over that one? Death?
My Death Cloud is embodied as my fear of living, which is based on the assumption I will die young. Except for creating a human (the process involved much science and luck), I can’t say that I’ve ever put 100% of myself into anything, long term. Sure, I get very far with a lot of endeavors, to the point of teetering on “success”, only to abandon ship because, what’s the point? I don’t let myself want. Not when it matters.
I see the day after my next birthday as the beginning of my second act. I don’t want to go into it with this attitude. It holds me back in countless ways and in so many areas of life. I imagine how it would feel to give something my all - to allow myself to be happily and dizzily obsessed with anything, and to truly let my friends in, and to fall in love with places, and to commit words to memory because I may want to draw on their wisdom one day. I remember when all these things came very naturally. And then my dad got sick, and I just…stopped.
I think the only way out of this is to let go of my Death Cloud. I’m so used to him that in a sick way I wonder how I’ll function, how I’ll be, without him. We’ve been together my entire adult life.
How does one let go of a Death Cloud? I don’t know how other people manage it, but this is how my gut is telling me to let go of mine:
1. I’m going to sit with everything he’s made of. The fear, the sorrow, the memories, the loss, all of it. Hopefully I’ll have a good cathartic cry, something I’ve never attempted without the aid of a bottle. Wine cries are too dull and sloppy to provide true release. No, this cry will be over iced tea, my dad’s favorite drink.
2. Then, I’m going to get quiet and envision, and I mean REALLY imagine, how my life - my day to day, my relationships - would look without my Death Cloud.
3. Next, I’ll try to imagine my life in 5 years, 10 years, and beyond. For the first time ever, I’ll imagine growing old.
4. Finally, I’m going to blow away my Cloud when I blow out my birthday candle next month. I’ll watch him dissipate, and I’ll step out of the past and start being present. Not one foot in and one foot out. I’ll be all in.
For the first time in a long time, I feel a twinge of possibility, a feeling I’ve only felt two other times as an adult. One of those times was when I gave birth to my son. I want more. For my son, for me. I want more.
How about you? Is there anything standing (or floating) the way of you living the life you really want to live?