A time to die
It’s never a good time to die.
I reflect on this as the light fades.
It’s always inconvenient. Is there ever a time when all the bills are paid, the legal documents are finalized and the house is clean? Not to mention any other miscellaneous projects you started and haven’t written out clear directions for next steps.
It’s the cookies for the school fundraiser I’m thinking of now. They’ve been baked and packaged and are sitting on top of the deep freeze in the garage; ready to be dropped off at tonight’s PTA meeting. Michael won’t know they’re there. He may remember I have a meeting, it’s on the calendar that hangs on our fridge. He won’t know I missed it, he has golf tonight and then he picks the kids up from youth group. He’ll get home, they’ll all eat the pot roast currently simmering in the slow cooker, and around eight o’clock he’ll expect a call.
“I’m on my way.” That’s what I tell him. “Do we need anything since I’m out?” I ask. He makes a joke about something sweet - and I’ll pick us both up a treat. It’s what we do.
Not tonight.
I don’t know what tonight looks like.
I imagine I’ll still be here; sprawled with hands out, bobbing ever so slightly in the two inches of water that edges the pond; hair floating and filled with leaves, dirt, moss and fish poop; eyes staring blankly into the starry sky devoid of a moon; my best pantsuit torn, bloodied, and unrecognizable.
I had an important meeting today. I finalized the listing for the biggest deal of my career. The house wasn’t a mansion, but it was massive.
Gary, the seller, was a widower who finally accepted it was time to move on. He’d spent a small fortune ever year on the extensive landscaping, weekly housekeeping, and of course a handyman who practically lived there. After all, the 1880s colonial, in Gary’s words, “had to be kept up, dear.”
Even if I had to split the commission, I stood to earn nearly six figures on this deal alone. It was, by far, the greatest listing I’ve ever landed. The final meeting with Gary had been today. We’d published the property to the MLS not three hours ago.
Even with the water sloshing in and out of my ears, I wonder if anyone has bookmarked the property yet.
Cookies and a property listing. Is this what I get to spend my last moments contemplating?
I try to picture my husband’s face. It’s frustrating. I don’t want to imagine his face. I want to go home and celebrate with him.
Dying tonight is incredibly inconvenient.
The late summer breeze rattles the reeds. Ironically, Michael likely isn’t too far away. The 18th hole of the golf course is on the other side of this pond. Judging by the evening light, there’s a chance he could be there now. Unlikely, but possible.
I thought I’d watch my life flash before my eyes. That’s what the books always say. It’s not a flash though, or maybe I’m just in denial. Once acceptance hits me I’ll get to relive it all.
Funny, I’m crying. Slow hot tears slid down my temples. I’m pretty sure I’ve accepted it.
Maybe I should try to relive the best moments before I can’t anymore. What happens to the memories when death finally takes me? Follow-on question, how long does death take?
I’ll know when I know.
I picture my oldest. My fiercely independent senior, her final year of high school started last week and she’s already been stacking piles of letters from colleges. They love her GPA, but they love her track times even more. She’s a sprinter. Maybe not fast enough to get a full-ride, but fast enough to get something in a scholarship at least.
Her face shrinks in my vision and suddenly I’m remembering a tiny, newborn version of her.
She was born bald. Not a single hair on her head until she was almost 18 months. My chest expands with the pressure of a laugh at the memory and the sob of grief that finally hits me. I won’t see how she does her hair for prom, or graduation, or her wedding. I won’t get to compare her baby photos to the real life image of her own babies.
I had 17 years and 8 months with her. That’s all I get. It was more than my son.
With him, I would apparently only get 14 years and 11 months. He was my shy one. Too tall for his feet, he was gangly and kind. He might have a future with track if he could hold onto a little muscle. It seemed no matter how much he ate, he grew taller instead of stronger. My chest tries to burst again.
Something heavy pressed down on my chest. There is nothing there. My throat is closing and breathing eludes me.
So this is death. A pressure crushing my chest, hot tears burning my eyes, and the crushing realization that my children are no longer mine to hug.
It’s never a good time to die.
Perhaps after your children have been married with kids of their own. Maybe in a nursing home surrounded by family who quietly breathe a sigh of relief when you finally let go. Perhaps after you’ve finally sold the family home that you hoped your kids would want, but have accepted that they’ll never come back to town for.
Not like this.
Not sinking slowly into the mud of a fishpond on the edge of a golf course with a to-do list still paper clipped to the calendar on the fridge.
Not before you’ve made sure your husband knows the password to all of the retirement accounts.
Not as collateral damage in a carjacking.
No. We were never meant to die like this.
I contemplate this now as I stare down at my body.
I don’t remember when I stopped breathing or when I stopped starring from those brown eyes and when I started starring down at them.
The sun set. A breeze rustles the reeds again. A breeze I cannot feel.
So this is death. What now?
