It was Sean, initially, who pushed me to think about death.
“Why does it scare you so much?” my husband asked with his arm around my shoulders, stoic-yet-earnest expression (one I’ve never seen anyone else quite pull off) on full display.
“Because I can’t live without you.” He stayed silent, a fine strategy to encourage more words to tumble from my lips. “Okay, I don’t know how to live without you. I’d figure it out, but I don’t want to. I can’t imagine it.”
And though it sounded morbid at the time—and I know still sounds morbid to many friends and family and strangers—Sean encouraged me to imagine it. At least a little, here and there, on some sort of regular basis. To remind myself that life is temporary for all of us, for everyone I love and don’t love, and there will inevitably be leaving and being left.
I listened. I started contemplating death more often. And strangely? I think it’s been one of the healthiest things I’ve done.
Naming things can make them less frightening
For a long ti…
