the legacy of dying
A chat with a coworker this week gave me some unexpected inspiration. Her name is Carmen, I call her Carmelita, and she makes the absolute best mole de pollo. We talked about how we hated Trump and his not too bright kids, we expressed our love of the Obama's and the Clinton's and the Kennedy's. I told her to keep an eye on Joe Kennedy, III. Discussing the Kennedy's, unfortunately, segued into death and what we feared.
I don’t fear death. I do fear having a painful death, or one that drags on forever. When I go, I want it to be quick. In a snap.
By the same token, I am not own that worries about cancer. I get my screenings, yes, but I don’t walk around thinking I’ll get it. I know people that are so afraid of cancer, they’re a bit scary. We all have to deal with things the best we can, I know, but maybe all the fretting isn’t the best for one's health, either. Have you heard stress kills?
I do have some concerns about Alzheimer’s as my great grandmother had it and the loss of my mind would be a very hard thing to handle. I pride myself on my intelligence, quick wit, and intellectual curiosity. Having that slowly taken from me would be unbearable. I’d rather do an Emma Bovary.
The hows and whys notwithstanding, I want to feel like I’ve brightened the world a bit, and that I’ll leave some sort of legacy so that I’m not immediately forgotten. I want to be remembered fondly, even for short while.
I am the end of the line, literally. My great-grandparents had one child and she had one child. My mother had three children, but my brothers had a different father. I had one child, but as he is no longer on this plane of existence, and died well before he would have provided me with a grandchild, I am it.
Maybe that’s why I started this blog. So something would be left. My words. My photos will remain, too, but my words are more important. One can interpret my photos in multiple ways, but not my words. My words are not an alternative truth. They’re explaining my life and my emotions and my history.
I think that’s my biggest fear. Not the process of dying, the possible pain and illness and despair, but of not being remembered. Of not ever having contributed anything that anyone felt worthwhile to the planet, or to them. I keep my grandmothers and son alive through my photography and writing, when I die, they will die, too. I don’t like it, but it’s just how it is.
I don’t fear death. I do fear having a painful death, or one that drags on forever. When I go, I want it to be quick. In a snap.
By the same token, I am not own that worries about cancer. I get my screenings, yes, but I don’t walk around thinking I’ll get it. I know people that are so afraid of cancer, they’re a bit scary. We all have to deal with things the best we can, I know, but maybe all the fretting isn’t the best for one's health, either. Have you heard stress kills?
I do have some concerns about Alzheimer’s as my great grandmother had it and the loss of my mind would be a very hard thing to handle. I pride myself on my intelligence, quick wit, and intellectual curiosity. Having that slowly taken from me would be unbearable. I’d rather do an Emma Bovary.
The hows and whys notwithstanding, I want to feel like I’ve brightened the world a bit, and that I’ll leave some sort of legacy so that I’m not immediately forgotten. I want to be remembered fondly, even for short while.
I am the end of the line, literally. My great-grandparents had one child and she had one child. My mother had three children, but my brothers had a different father. I had one child, but as he is no longer on this plane of existence, and died well before he would have provided me with a grandchild, I am it.
Maybe that’s why I started this blog. So something would be left. My words. My photos will remain, too, but my words are more important. One can interpret my photos in multiple ways, but not my words. My words are not an alternative truth. They’re explaining my life and my emotions and my history.
I think that’s my biggest fear. Not the process of dying, the possible pain and illness and despair, but of not being remembered. Of not ever having contributed anything that anyone felt worthwhile to the planet, or to them. I keep my grandmothers and son alive through my photography and writing, when I die, they will die, too. I don’t like it, but it’s just how it is.
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| a room room with a view Cimetière du Père Lachaise Paris ©Trish Korous |
what a beautiful photo, this room with a view.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Susan.
DeleteI would be happy here, I think.