The other day I asked myself when I first noticed the presence of death in my life. When did I begin to understand what it meant to die.
There are people who lose relatives and friends as children and already feel her presence – of death, from an early age. There are also those who experience loss as a child, but have no exact idea of ​​what it means to never see a certain person again.
I searched my memories and remembered that for some reason I don't know, during a period of my childhood, my idea about death was: only adults and old people die. And they die because they're adults and they're sick. But when I read the book “Cazuza”, by Viriato Corrêa, at the age of 10, I learned that children got sick and died. Dying was not for grown-ups.
This “discovery” surprised me and I spent days thinking about the death of my friends and noticing the presence of death in newspapers, movies and even cartoons. I believe that a year later, my aunt returned from the Gulf War (she was a missionary) and brought with her many stories about death; famine, war, bodies or pieces of them on the side of the road. And so, my childish vision understood that death also happened in other countries, with other people; kids and adults. And it wasn't always caused by disease.
As a child, on any given Sunday my dog ​​died before my eyes… It was the first time I witnessed a last breath. And every day I noticed death making itself present everywhere.
About three years ago I had an internal hemorrhage that took me to the emergency room during the night. The pain was intense and I could barely breathe and stand. At the hospital, I was taken for an MRI scan.
The pain was unbearable and in the minutes I remained inside the machine for the exam to be carried out, I thought to myself: I'm sure I'm dying, it's my end… I need to do something to enjoy my last moment of life. I need to say goodbye thanking you. I closed my eyes and started listing my thanks. One by one, very slowly.
When I noticed this thought, I strangely calmed down. I felt some strong connection to my inner space of peace. I do not know how to explain; I knew I was bad, but I felt I was okay. The fear was there – the fear of dying, but it felt okay to leave. Even because I was in so much pain that my mind couldn't take it anymore and if being without that intense physical pain meant dying, at that moment it was okay to die.
The exam ended, I took medication and felt sick. I almost died part 2. During the seizures I remember asking the doctor if I was dying. No, I was not. It was just an allergic reaction.
It was quite a scare! I don't know if I was close, if it was the height of pain, fear, the hospital and all that package of events, but it was scary to realize the end of the line.
I recovered well, without any sequelae. But I died that day. Something in me died. Perhaps a character, a certainty, an illusion…
With every story I write, I realize that something in my past comes undone. Details and memories die between the lines and a new story is born elsewhere. It is the constant cycle of birth and death.
It's hard to remember and accept that nothing is guaranteed. There is no happy ending. Any moment can be final. And what would an ending be? Just like any moment can be happy.
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But I believe so much in the opportunity of a new day! I appreciate the sunrise, the brightness of the stars, the wind blowing, the rain that comes, the rain that goes… I want to stay! Always a little more, one more day.
I try to be present and make every moment count, every breath. I try to understand with respect and humility that death is present because it is part of life.
I wish that we all know how to wisely contemplate death to be able to appreciate and live in harmony and compassion with life! With our life and all the life that surrounds and completes us.
