Death and Taxes

Hello, Kittens!

I’m writing this as s a brand new 29 year old! Thanks to my fellow Midnight Society members for the blog post – you guys are the best.

I have a little story -a ramble, if you will – about my birthday. Yesterday I woke up and went for birthday breakfast. I was feeling pretty good. I’m pregnant, so my skin is all glowy and my hair is awesome. I didn’t have my usual mini-meltdown about growing older (those started when I turned 25). When I got home I put my son down for a nap and made myself a cup of tea. I sat there, reflecting on the past year and wondered what this next year had in store for me. I daydreamed about the places I wanted to go and some of them were pretty outrageous. I thought to myself, “I better start saving…I’m not getting any younger.” I took a sip of tea and my mind started wandering down the tree-lined, shadowed path I usually reserve for brainstorming sessions.

No, I wasn’t getting any younger. I’m dying. We all are. I know that. You know that. But the dark trail sucked me into a pit of terror. Right at that moment, drinking my favorite hot beverage, the seconds of my life clock were ticking by. The part that scared me the most was that there was nothing I could do about it. No matter how healthy I eat or how much I walk or how good I try to be, I’m dying.

There is nothing I can do to avoid the day I die. My heart is hammering just thinking about it. I will close my eyes one last time. I’ll take one last breath and have one last thought. I won’t inhale again. My heart will stop. I’ll stop.

They’ll cart me away to the morgue. I’ll be cut out of my clothes and a stranger will wash my naked body as I lay upon a steel gurney. That same stranger will massage my limbs until the effects of rigor mortis let up. He’ll probably glue my eyes closed once I’m all cleaned up. I’ll spare you the details of how he’ll sew my jaw shut. I hope he morphs my lips into a half-smile…like I know everyone’s secrets.

He’ll drain my blood and push a chemical cocktail of embalming fluid through my veins. He’ll move onto my tummy, where he’ll make a small incision near by belly button. My organs will be punctured, drained, and pumped full of the juice. He will sew me shut.

Someone will dress me. They’ll brush my hair and paint my face (easy on the rouge, please). My hands will be folded over my chest.

“Oh, she looks so peaceful.” They’ll murmur as they drift past my open casket. They’ll close the lid and drive away with me. They’ll lower me into a hole, toss a few flowers onto my casket, and bury me. It will be just me, the dark, and the battalions of insects waiting to feast on my flesh.

That’s it. That’s the end.

I don’t consider myself a thanatophobe. I don’t have anxiety about dying during my normal day-to-day life, but today, I felt it. Right this second, I feel it. I guess all I can do is enjoy the rest of the day and hope there’s a bright light somewhere in the mix.

 

So…have a good day,

Jenna

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