I’m obsessed and terrified with dying. When I was young, like most young people, I never thought I would live long enough to become old. The difference is that the feeling has not left as I’ve slowly moved towards middle age. It’s not that growing older has been harder than I expected, because in many ways it’s been softer, it’s just that this low decibel hum of foreboding that has always lived with me hasn’t disappeared. When I was twenty-seven my daughter was born. That same year, I remember thinking that I would die when I was thirty-seven. I told a few people that, and it was greeted with an understandable level of patronization and smiles. And so I don’t think about it often. But when I do, it seems as real and present as the first time it barreled towards me.
I thought about it today. The terrifying part wasn’t that I could still feel it there. The terrifying part is that I’m much closer to that point, but still far from where I want to be.
