The Transition: musing about dying

A Short Story*

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I don’t know why I resisted the transition. I had been broken for so long – a shell of my former self. Once a vigorous, adventure-seeking go-getter, I had gradually withered away to this stagnant, boring, nearly lifeless being. I was something alive, but not living. The transition happened a lot less painfully than I thought it would. One moment I was there -- feeling the weight of the world on my chest, the tumors taking up space in my spine and causing the horrendous back pain that had become a constant part of my life that I couldn’t shake – and the next moment, it was all gone. It was like waking up from a restful sleep feeling like a million bucks. The transition itself was like jumping into a cool lake after being out in the hot sun. You know it’ll feel better when the water washes over you, but there’s that hesitation – that resistance because you know that there will be the initial shock of cold before the comfort.

As I was lying there in my final moments, I thought about my family. I worried about my children and their lives and deaths and it made me sad. Still, none of that followed me. My soul felt calm knowing that I had no claim to that world now – that their lives were theirs. I was merely waiting for them. It felt like that time when I was 10 years old when my father dropped me off in front of the movie theater in the pouring rain. “Get inside and save us a few seats,” he said. I ran inside and did as he said. I waited, knowing – or rather feeling that he would be there any moment. When I saw him enter the theater, there was that warm, comfortable feeling and that ease of tension that came over me. I look forward to that feeling again and I know that it will happen in good time.

I hung there just after the transition, taking in my surroundings which I could never correctly describe as it is nothing like life on earth – though suffice to say, if you picture a calming, soothing place where all your worries just float away, you're pretty close. My next realization washed over me like a wave of elation: people I loved had died before me. Suddenly, their names and faces came flooding into my recollection and I felt like a traveler getting off the plane to one’s home after being gone for far too long. My beloved grandmother whose cooking I could never replicate had died years ago and it always left that pang of loss as I tried to use the cast iron just as she had. I thought of my friend from high school who had died in that car accident before we graduated, and remembered my two Army buddies lost in that terrible blast. These people whom I loved would all be here. As soon as I remembered them, there they were. I had metaphorically deplaned and became surrounded by a hundred embraces.

So here I am, existing still, just in a different plane. I enjoyed my walk through life, but my body just became unable to contain me. It was my body that died, not me. So take my advice: enjoy the time, but embrace the transition when it comes. It’s not so bad.

Please note that this account was created based on a career full of interacting with thousands of patients and is not meant to represent any one in particular. I took careful attention not even to imply whether the subject is a man or a woman or non-binary, as it was truly meant to be applicable to all. Any resemblance to a single case out there is coincidental and was not my intention. Thank you for reading.