"This will be the day that I die" by Linda Paist

Creative non-fiction

I might die today.

This does not trouble me or cause panic. It does not elevate my heart rate or launch me into a full-blown attack of PTSD, although at one time, it did. The solemn recognition that today may be my last is a momentary, fleeting thought that pops into my head every day and then dissipates like breath on a frosty day.

Photo by Kier in Sight Archives

The trigger for this thought varies. When I leave for a trip that takes me on the interstate among trucks barreling down the highway. When I walk my dogs and a car approaches without slowing down. When I hear thunder and I am outside, away from shelter. When a young friend gets a terrible diagnosis. When the breaking news of yet another mass shooting hits my phone. I think about all the people who showed up to work or school or a parade and had no idea it would be their last day alive. In each situation, I think, that could be me. Someday, that will be me. Morbid, yet rational.

Other times, the thought of dying has no discernable provocation. I can be having an exceptionally good day; the test results are negative, blood pressure is normal. I feel as strong and agile as I did 30 years ago. My family is safe. Still, I wonder if “this will be the day that I die,” to quote Don McLean.

As I began this essay, I wondered about the origins of this “live like you are dying” cliche. I knew it didn’t start with an overplayed country song. I figured it had its roots in scripture or ancient Greek philosophy. Great warriors such as Beowulf and Achilles approached each day as if it could be their last, so they awoke, put the pedal to the metal, and dared Death to do battle.

Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius (c.121-180 AD) is credited with this aphorism: “Perfection of character is this: to live each day as if it was your last, without frenzy, without apathy and without pretense.” Less reckless, more thoughtful, less cliched, and definitely more poetic than the Tim McGraw song. This view is less about impulsively rushing to fulfill every item on our bucket list than being fully awake each day. To feel, to be authentic, not to fear or panic.

Perhaps a preoccupation with imminent death is a mindset all middle-aged people develop as the years tick by, the hair turns gray (or disappears), and the mirror reminds us that no amount of diet and exercise and moisturizer can truly preserve us in the end. I suspect with a reasonable amount of certainty that I am not alone in this, but my certainty is based on my gut rather than hard evidence. It’s an awkward topic to bring up in conversation, even with my oldest and best friends.

Is it healthy, wise, or useful to think about death so often? Whether it is healthy or wise rests on the degree and intensity. Obsessing about dying and accidental death keeps people from leaving their homes, going in public, traveling, eating food they did not cook, taking any chances at all, no matter how slight.

That said, I can definitely argue that pondering one’s death is useful. To acknowledge that I may die today means I will focus on what’s essential and significant. I will not waste my time worrying about the mostly minor, often meaningless roadblocks and annoyances that suck up our waking hours, minute upon minute, until we get to the end of the day and realize we wasted a perfectly good opportunity to actually LIVE. It helps me prioritize in a way I did not when I was younger. I wish I had. When we’re young, we see the years stretching out before us and believe we will have plenty of time to get to our ultimate destination.

I rarely think that I will live a long, eventful life and die peacefully in my sleep at the ripe old age of 100. That merciful end is for people who are far luckier than I am. The people who know me the best understand where this belief comes from. Once people know my past, they understand it too.

The women in my immediate family died much too young. My mother died at age 33. My step-mother died at 43. One died suddenly; one died a slow, wasting death. I am 62 years old. If the past is prologue, I’m living on borrowed time. The end could come any day at any moment.

My mother was killed at age 33 on Sunday, June 16, 1968. I was seven; my younger brother was only 19 months old. The next day, probably for the first time in her life, she was on the front page of the Huntingdon Daily News, not for the way she lived but for the way she died: struck by lightning and killed instantly.

A photograph of the three of us taken in my grandmother’s backyard on the day she died shows her holding my brother, her arm around me in my favorite pink and white polka dot sundress, a grimace on her face. I thought she was either unprepared for the photo to be taken or perhaps blinded by the sun in her face. Years later, I learned from my mother’s childhood best friend that she was considering leaving my father. It was a tragic alignment of events. For decades, until my Grammie’s own death, that photo sat framed on her dresser. At one point, it must have fallen, and the glass in the frame shattered but remained intact. I wondered why my Grammie, a gracious woman, the mother of only one child, didn’t buy a new frame, but I never asked. Eventually, the shattered frame seemed appropriate. I understood the symbolism before I even knew the definition of symbolism.

The summer thunderstorm came on quickly, as they usually do. Picnic guests at our annual family reunion scrambled to gather their belongings and wait out the storm in their cars. I stood with my mother, waiting to use the outhouse. As the rain poured and thunder rang out through that church picnic grove at the top of a hill, a lightning bolt bounced off the tin roof of the outhouse and hit my mother. I did not see it happen; the impact knocked me out. I awoke lying on the wood plank floor of the picnic pavilion as rain pelted the roof and water ran off the round roof like a curtain. My father was there, and he had lost track of my toddler brother. My mother had given him to my cousin’s teenage girlfriend to hold as we went to the outhouse, a simple, fateful action that no doubt spared his life.

Two ambulances took several people to the hospital 40 minutes away; I was among them. Before they arrived, a member of our extended family tried to revive my mother with mouth-to-mouth breathing; few people knew what CPR was or how to perform it. My father’s mother wept the entire trip, and when we arrived at the hospital, she wailed, “Why do these things happen to us?” At that point, I didn’t know what these things were.

My father doesn’t remember why I stayed in the hospital, and while he remembers the doctors saying that I might have problems later in life as a result of my proximity to the strike, he doesn’t remember what those problems were. I remember sitting in a hospital bed in the children’s ward, my elbows and knees aching, and a nurse sat with me and rubbed them. I still remember that ache.

I asked my father how Mummy was doing. He said she was fine. It’s a white lie that collapsed when I arrived home from the hospital on the day of her funeral, asking where she was, shocked that everyone in the room burst into tears.

For years, I did not understand why he lied when the truth would have to come out sooner or later. I was in the hospital with doctors and nurses and social workers all around; what better place to deliver a devastating truth? I resented him for years.

Then I became a parent, and I understood the lie. At seven, one’s concept of death is nebulous at best; death is what happens to goldfish from the carnival, flies who meet the fly-swatter, birds that miscalculate how long they have before the car makes impact. The fish is replaceable; the bird–one of a multitude of wild animals–is forgotten. How does one deliver the news to a seven-year-old that her one and only mother is never coming back again?

The rest of my life has been aftermath. I didn’t learn that losing a parent at a young age is considered trauma until I was in my forties.  I was both relieved and terrified by this knowledge that trauma leaves an imprint; according to Psycom.net, “it can leave a chemical mark on a person's genes, which can then be passed down to future generations.” All I knew is that I was different from everyone else. Now, I know why.

I still feel different from everyone else. The way I raised my daughter was influenced by this trauma. The kind of wife I am, friend I am, sister I am, teacher I am, human being I am is a direct result of this trauma. Now, at 62, I accept it.

When I turned 33, I thought, “I’m the same age as my mother when she died.” I realized how young she was. Too young to die.

When I turned 43, I thought, “I’m the same age as my step-mother when she died.” She fought cancer for more than seven years until her body could not fight it any longer. At 43, I was finishing my second college degree, ready to embark on a teaching career. It finally registered how young she was. Too young to die.

Each year since turning 30, I have celebrated my birthday with joy. The significant birthdays–40, 50, 60–have been especially sweet. I never lie about my age; I proclaim it proudly. I have already outlived my mother and step-mother; I will never take the privilege for granted. I remind those who express dread over having another birthday that age is a privilege denied to many.

Marcus Aurelius only wrote one text, titled Meditations. In it, he wrote that he “believed that people should focus on the present…‘do not act as if you were going to live ten thousand years. Death hangs over you. While you live, while it is in your power, be good.’”

I might die today.

So, while I walk the dogs, l look up and appreciate the blue sky, the wildflowers growing along the road, and the height of the corn in the field. I marvel at the fact that I live in a place where I see deer, foxes, rabbits, birds, chipmunks, squirrels, and raccoons.

I might die next week as I drive to the Jersey shore on the interstate as cars and trucks fly around me. I choose to look forward to sand and salt water and sunsets and crab cakes and not worry about what may happen on the drive to get there.

In a few months, I will enter school with the knowledge that I might have to die protecting my students; that would be an honorable way to die. In the meantime, I will plan my lessons, offer a smile and a kind word to my students and colleagues, and try to teach them something they’ll remember. That’s the closest to immortality I’ll get. I’m okay with that.

In all the minutes of each day, I will not chase away my thoughts of death. I’ll tip my hat then let go. I will not get lost obsessing about the manner of my death, wondering if it will hurt, worrying how my family will deal with my absence, despairing that I will be quickly forgotten by those who know me. I will go through the day with my eyes open so when I close them at night, I know I did not waste the precious hours I was given.

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Linda Paist was born in Chicago and grew up in Pennsylvania, where she currently resides. She earned a BA English from Muhlenberg College in 1983, married in 1987 and had one child in 1993. Having worked in advertising and marketing for fifteen years, she chose to leave the private sector and return to college to earn a teaching certificate. She has taught high school English for the past 16 years. Paist recently completed a young adult novel titled Secrets and Consequences and is searching for a traditional publisher. She writes short stories, poems, personal essays and other creative non-fiction pieces. She is inspired to write by paintings, photographs, and by her experience with and interest in generational trauma, specifically the ripples that radiate for years after tragedy.