I'm Healthy. But I'm Terrified Of Death

It’s 1985, and I am seven years old. I can see the pink roses on the couch in my childhood home. My mother is sitting close to me, and I am overcome with anxiety. One of my classmates’ siblings has just passed away from a brain tumor; it is the first time I realize that kids can actually die.

Prior to this, I had assumed that all people live long, wonderful lives and die at the age of 100. Ignorance truly is bliss, isn’t it? But now, on that couch, with my mom next to me, my brain goes haywire trying to understand something that feels impossible to understand. I now know more, even if I understand less. I know that life (and death) isn’t always fair, and that death doesn’t always make sense. I try to imagine what it would be like to be sick or to be in heaven. Naturally, I wonder if I could develop a brain tumor or die.

The thoughts have been keeping me up at night and so in this moment, sitting on the white couch with the rose flowers, I confess my fear.

“I am afraid to die, Mom. I don’t ever want to die.”

My mom doesn’t seem rattled at all. “You aren’t going to die anytime soon,” she says. Then she adds, “And you don’t have to worry about it, because God won’t take you until you’re ready.”

At seven years old, I know two things about my mom: 1) she is never wrong, and 2) she never tells a lie. And so, her response brings me peace. My fear dissipates. And although it returns at times, my mom’s promise, which is how I interpret it, quickly pushes my fear away. Somehow, in my naïve young mind, I believe that the poor child with the brain tumor must have been ready to die — and that someday, when my time arrives, I will be ready, too.

Looking back, I’m so glad my mom had the right words to comfort me. I’m also a little embarrassed to admit just how long the naïveté — believing and being comforted by those words — stayed with me. As I grew older and gained life experience, I still believed that when my turn came, I would feel ready to leave this world and head to heaven (hopefully). I believed that my time wouldn’t come until I was ready. I imagined that with old age and many years behind me, living any longer would feel like work, like some kind of unexpected overtime, and that I would, at that time, make peace with death, fearlessly.

And maybe that is the case for some people. Maybe it will even be the case for me someday. But let me tell you, it is definitely not the case for me now, and I have a hard time believing it ever will be.

In other words, although my mom’s words comforted me for a really long time, somewhere between seven and 47, I realized that my mom is a liar. Okay, maybe that’s a little harsh, but I held on to her words for far too long in order to protect myself and then somehow realized this is what I was doing. The truth is: I don’t feel like death and heaven are any less scary than they were at the age of seven. And I don’t believe God won’t take me until I am ready — because I am pretty sure I never will be ready.

I don’t feel old at all. I don’t feel like I have lived long enough and accomplished all I am here for. I am not ready to die.

Forty years later, I bring these new fears back to my mother. I remind her of the conversation we had all those years ago and ask her — somewhat lightheartedly — why she lied to me.