Just Trying to Stay Alive

I apprehensively approached the casket with my grandmother by my side. “Wake up, wake up,” she said, shaking my grandfather’s body, and I desperately wished he would rise, miraculously back to life, defying the reality before us. I grasped his stiff, cold, leathery hand in mine and flashed back to when I first touched a cadaver. 

I hated myself, not for making the connection—because I knew how much my cadaver meant to me and how pivotal she had been to my learning of anatomy and understanding of what it means to be truly alive—but for the perceived cruelty of the comparison. 

I screamed at myself inside to tell him something, to thank him for his integral role in shaping who I am today, for all the wonderful memories he created for me, for his continuous support and encouragement in my life, but all I could muster was “I love you.” I prayed that the eulogy I wrote could communicate what I was too choked up to express. 

I had the blessing of Facetiming with my grandfather two days before his passing. Our conversation started much like any other: He inquired about school, and I asked if he was up to any shenanigans lately; he chuckled and replied, “Just trying to stay alive.” Moments after, we said we would see each other at Thanksgiving, said we loved each other, and parted ways. 

The wake and funeral were held a week later. 

Thanksgiving came and went two months later, and there was an empty chair at the table that his presence was supposed to fill. The silence was deafening, and suddenly our conversation months prior felt eerie.

I did not know that would be the last time I spoke to my grandfather, but he did. Unbeknownst to me, he told my grandmother he felt like he was dying the day we spoke. He spared me that detail, and I am undecided as to whether that was a blessing or a curse. How did he know so definitively that the end was near? Perhaps the body prepares for its transition in ways the mind cannot comprehend. For months, he had been dreaming of his late grandmother, a woman he treasured, visiting him from the other side. Was this a gentle sign that he was soon to join the dead?

Personally, I do not remember most of my dreams, yet within the six months since his passing, I have dreamt of my grandfather on two distinct occasions that I can call to mind at a moment’s notice. They did not come the night he died, nor the night of the funeral, nor during any holiday season, but on quiet, seemingly random weekdays two months apart. I hold onto these dreams as though they are tangible memories. But now, I am dreaming of a dead person; does that mean my time is soon to come? Maybe that is just the grief talking.

Death inevitably comes for all of us, but in our world, we spend so much time railing against death, fighting against it with every ounce of willpower, that I wonder: Are the dying able to recognize death, and do they know when their final day is here? Some studies have demonstrated that just prior to death, the firing of synapses in our brain intensifies; but what does this mean clinically? Close to death, does our brain experience physiological changes that indicate to us in a conscious manner that we are going to die, and then, once we do die, do we know we are no longer alive? I have more questions than the world knows how to answer. So, I turn to religion.

In the spirit of Catholicism, I place my hope in Heaven as my ultimate destination. Initially, laying my grandfather’s body in the ground felt barbaric, like a harsh finality. However, with time, I realized that it is a profound act of faith. Akin to planting a seed, he is committing his body to the earth. I believe that death is not an end, but a beginning, where our loved ones are truly alive in Christ, connected to us in love.

However, a recent conversation with a close friend got me considering a frightening alternative: What if, after death, there is just nothingness? 

We agreed that was unlikely, but maybe we just did not want to think about its plausibility. My interpretation of our conversation is that perhaps we do not even know we are dead, but rather, we simply replay memories in a closed loop, constructing a false afterlife to comfort ourselves. 

That belief scares me to the core. It forces me to confront devastating questions: What if Heaven is just something I hold onto to accept the notion that everyone I love will someday pass, but it is my way of keeping them alive? What if it is my means of coping with that fact that someday I will die just abruptly as I was born, wiped away like a whiteboard, leaving behind only ashes and dust?

I find myself trapped between knowledge and longing. My soul deeply embraces the promise of Heaven as the cornerstone of my faith, yet it sometimes feels as intangible as a fairy tale in a distant land. I struggle to reconcile this absolute, inner knowing with an existential fear that it is just a dream. 

Yet I hold onto the reality of Heaven through the quiet, persistent, and undeniable presence of my grandfather, whose surprises in my daily life speak of a continued, loving existence. 

I truly do believe each day is a gift, and every conversation a precious moment. However, it did not take my grandfather’s death to know this; rather, it took witnessing his suffering. From watching both my grandparents age, I observed their slow decline and loss of autonomy. For my grandfather, even simple tasks took exhaustive, painful effort. I take comfort knowing that he is at peace in Heaven, free from earthly suffering. 

It is a strangely comforting feeling to look forward to the afterlife, to be reunited with the people you love.

I love you, Grandpa. I will hold you in my heart until I can hug you in Heaven.