Mr. Death, I Am No Longer Afraid
© Maria Odessky Rosen
I once was so afraid of death. The first time I attended a funeral, I became hysterical seeing the corpse openly displayed and hearing the moans and sobs of the dearly beloved. My mom was so embarrassed that she rushed me out the door. When I was seven years old and still living in Russia, someone in the building next to ours died. As I was on my way to visit a friend across the street, I saw a black swarm out of the corner of my eye, the funeral procession passing by. It looked so menacing, so dangerous. My heart began to pound, and I ran in the opposite direction until I was out of breath. As though you can catch death or escape it.
Back in the ‘80s, Soviet funerals were a big deal. While the government discouraged religious practice in all other facets of Russian life, funerals were somehow exempt. Death was the only part of life where people experienced a feeling of freedom, and therefore it deserved attention, which is, of course, ironic. The deceased would be washed and dressed meticulously and then displayed for days in an open casket in the family home. In earlier times, the body would be laid out directly on the dining room table. Even Jewish families would have open caskets, a practice which is taboo in the Jewish religion. Religious prayers would be recited. And as with everything else in Russian life, dvoeverie was de rigueur: superstitions woven into religious rites. My brother, who still lives in Russia, tells me that most of these traditions are no longer practiced in the cities, and the only dead body that is still on public display is Lenin’s in the Red Square Mausoleum. Required superstitious practices at the time included covering all mirrors with black cloth and stopping all clocks. Mirrors were seen as portals to the spirit world and were covered to prevent the soul from getting trapped and, God-forbid, remaining in the house. There was a popular belief that the first person to see their reflection in a mirror would be the next to die.
When the public display ended, the body was carried out of the house feet first so that the deceased would forget where he had lived and would not be able to return to take someone else with him. All chairs and tables that the casket rested on would be turned upside down, also to discourage the spirit from returning. Mourners would throw sticks behind them when following the coffin to the graveside to prevent any evil spirits from following them home. Perhaps this is why, in banyas, Russian bathhouses, people still beat themselves with sticks in order to cleanse their spirits.
Because I was such a hypersensitive and impressionable child, everything about death gave me anxiety. I was always grateful to my parents for not forcing me to attend funerals when I was little. When I became older and we were living in America, my grandfather was the first close family member to die. I was eighteen and better at suppressing my fears. Though I could now attend funerals, I still had an unhealthy fear of death and had no desire to look at a dead body, blood relative notwithstanding. My grandfather’s funeral was an open casket. I averted my eyes as best I could through the service. But it was as though the morticians knew there were people like me present and had raised his head on a pillow to make sure we couldn’t miss the body. The only way to avoid that would be to turn around and face the congregants behind me. Everyone who went up to kiss my grandfather’s stone-cold cheek gave me a judging eye for not doing the same. I didn’t care. It wasn’t until my father died almost thirty years later that I came face to face with Mr. Death and conquered my fear.
My father’s protracted death from bone cancer was horrific, and being his health care proxy/translator/doctor-patient liaison/agent and daughter put me right next to him as he fought to the end. Even though his inevitable death was not surprising, it shattered me. I couldn’t eat, read, or talk to people. I would just sit in a dark room and stare into nothingness. There were times when I flirted with Mr. Death. I reasoned that the only way I could ever see my dad again would be to visit him personally in “the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.” I fantasized about inviting Mr. Death over for lunch and the two of us having an extended conversation. Those were dark days. My father’s death changed me in so many ways. Eventually, when I emerged from the mourning and the depression, I was no longer afraid of dying. I had faced it with my father and had survived. Thankfully, Monsieur Death didn’t accept my lunch invitation. I finally accepted him as a part of life. Not necessarily something to look forward to, but not something to fear either. I am not like Bryan Johnson, who wants to live forever and is working to reverse the aging process through extreme living and medical interventions. I also don’t agree with Hunter Thompson. I don’t want to “skid in [the grave] broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!” I am somewhere in the middle, more like Bram Stoker’s eponymous hero who embodies the fear of death and its fascinating enticement. While I fully support those who adopt Hunter Thompson’s approach, I am too cautious to live like that. I want to try to eat clean and limit alcohol, not to prolong life but to feel better while I’m alive. Although I have to admit, sometimes I, too, want to binge just because it’s fun.
After my father’s death, my entire family became more comfortable with the dying process. So much so that we now joke about “Going to Switzerland,” where assisted suicide is legal, if any of us is ever so incapacitated by illness or disease that we lose our quality of life. It’s comforting to know there is the option. In fact, my husband, who is in a prime state of health, recently said, "Maria, you will wait for me to be incapacitated. Won't you? You're not thinking of sending me sooner, right?”
As for me, I have come full circle from being afraid to catch death and wanting to outrun it to accepting it fully.
About the Author
Maria’s poems, short stories, and essays have appeared in newspapers and magazines, including the Beyond Words Anthology. She has received writing awards, including the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest and the 24-Hour Writing Contest, as well as a competitive mentorship in the Gordon Square Review.
