box of Jack

Last weekend, there was a brief moment where I thought about how tragic it would be if I died. I know that sounds weird and just brain-crushingly morbid but, to me, it was kind of reassuring because I felt really strongly that I had a place in this world.

Way back in high school, I used to think about how sorry people would be if I died. They’d all feel extremely guilty, I’d finally get noticed and maybe then someone would bother to take some interest in me. I like to think that these are typical thoughts for a teenager but I never asked around. Teen suicide may be a horrible cliche but cliches don’t exist when you are in the midst of puberty. Everything is some brand new emotion that is so spectacularly new and strong that surely no one else has ever experienced this and the adults just don’t understand.

There have been similar types of depression since high school but the suicidal thoughts never returned. I like to think something clicked and suddenly killing myself didn’t stand up to the risk-reward analysis.

Recently, it’s been thoughts of if so-and-so were dead, I would be very sad. I’ve already faced the idea of a grandparent’s mortality. My uncle’s death at 42 was certainly a shock to the system. As a result of that, I’m beginning to come to terms with my parents’ mortality.

I think my mother has been thinking about death too. At the airport, about an hour before I have to go through the gates, she takes me quietly aside and talks to me. She tells me how she’s happy with her accomplishments, how her boys have grown up and how she’s ready to go peacefully. Mind you, she is not facing death any time soon and her chief medical complaint is chronic joint pain. I know my mother and she’s just a tightly-wound ball of anxieties wrapped in old-world practicality.

Or perhaps she’s switched her passive-aggressiveness to DEFCON 3 and she really wants to hold a grandchild soon. Fat chance.