I created a playlist a few months ago called existential crisis as a joke, but now I listen to it all the time.
It contains a growing collection of cinematic instrumentals on the same wavelength as Max Richter’s On the Nature of Daylight. I listen to it at work and whenever I sit down to write an essay, which is to say I am listening to it now.
As the name might suggest, the playlist was born from the existential dread that grew from thinking a lot about life, but most of all, death. And these thoughts weren’t so much about my death as they were about the imminent death of my loved ones, who will one day pass away when their time has come, and then, I suppose… vanish.
I say I suppose because I haven’t yet experienced death firsthand. For better or for worse, I have lapped around the sun 26 times without someone close to me dying, and now I worry that when the time comes, I won’t know how to handle it.
So eventually, I decided that I did not fear death. What I really fear is grief.
A few months ago, just after existential crisis was made, I heard that my grandmother wasn’t doing well. She had been a very active person throughout her life, but neglect led to a severely injured back that has left her bedridden and in pain. She will undergo surgery in the coming days.
My grandmother is old, and while she has lived a full life, I have heard that old people tend to give up when things like this happen to them. The elderly do not want to be a burden to their children or grandchildren, so they come to terms with their age and frailty and I suppose they just die. Maybe it is also because surgery or medication at such an age may feel moot to them. I don’t really know.
She’s on the other side of the world, my grandmother. I haven’t seen her in a few years due to the pandemic. There was always a little bit of a language barrier between us, but never so much that we were strangers to one another.
Her long dark hair has suddenly turned gray and was cut short. She is losing grip strength. She does not have the autonomy she once had, but she is still lucid. More frequently I wonder if she feels she still has her dignity throughout all of this. I would video call and see for myself, but she is very tired these days.
Is fearing grief rather than the death of someone I love selfish? Am I making this about me?
After some thought, I don’t think so. Death is for those who pass, but grief is for those who still live, who now have the added pain knowing that the ones they love are no longer here. They’re just not here. Where are they?
My therapist tells me that no one can prepare for death and the grieving that comes after, and they’re right. No one can be sure how they will react until it happens, so this whole essay is a manifestation of my overthinking. But, alas, I can’t help it.
I wrote a short poem a few days back and was surprised to find that I wasn’t alone. Apparently, many people my age are beginning to consider the impact of losing their parents, siblings, and friends. Grandmothers, too. It made me feel better if only to validate my own existential crises.
I hope, in some way, this essay can do the same.
the past few years I’ve spent more time worrying about the imminent death of others
than the details of my own life.
What will I do when the person I want most to comfort me has passed?
Where can I go to see them again?
What if I have more to say?
— the fear of grief,
January 30, 2022
