Chi è Morto?

Chi è morto?--voi, o il vecchio?

--Mozart, Don Giovanni

"Oh, this is...." (One can be almost certain the missing part of this sentence was not "...the end," or "...it for me," or anything of that nature. A book was being examined at the time. Had death not interrupted, it would probably have gone on "...thoughtful, but I've already read it," or maybe "...very heavy.")

"Turn out the light, would you?"

"I need to talk to Mum."

"She said she felt sick, so she took a bowl with her in the sitting room. A few minutes later, we heard the bowl breaking on the floor. When we ran in, she had died. She must've been holding the bowl, and when she went, so did it."

"Her mother died of a brain aneurysm, so she was always afraid she'd go the same way. Nobody realized it when it happened, though, because there was a flu going round, one of those GI bugs you get round this time of year. When she went all pale and started getting nauseous, everyone just thought she'd caught it too. So she went upstairs to lie down, and never woke up again."

"He didn't know anything about it, I don't think. A couple of weeks beforehand, his mind started to wander more and more. By the time he got round to dying, he hadn't said a word or opened his eyes in days."

"She asked for something to drink, and when I came back with it, she was dead. I was only gone a minute. It was the strangest thing."

"His book was on his face when I went in. I guess he died happy."

If only someone was around to say what it's like--dying, that is. That's the one thing that still worries me about death. I've gotten used to the idea of not existing, and being forgotten completely, and so forth. There's no point being bothered with that. It happens to everyone, and can't be helped. I used to try and make people promise to talk to me, after I croaked, as if I was still there, but I've given over with that. It's a selfish sort of thing to do, tantamount to telling people to dwell on their grief once I've gone. Life's for the living, not some gregarious ol' ghost.

The how of it, on the other hand, still causes me some concern. Death itself--not the struggle before death, age and illness and what have you--death itself seems like an awfully sneaky sort of thing. One moment, you're quite certain you're alive. The next, pouf!--it's all over, catching you entirely unawares. I mean, look at those last moments up there. Those are my collected deathbed experiences, and a few belonging to family and friends--and in not a one did the victim say goodbye. Indeed, nobody even said anything resembling a farewell. Surely they would have, if they'd known.

If I knew I was about to die, I'd try and say something memorable. If I was alone at the time, I might even ring someone up to say it:

"Yeh, this is Socar. Socar. I knew you twenty years ago. I haven't much time--just wanted to say I'm sorry for all the mean things I did to you in primary school. If I'd known how life would turn out for you, I'd have been nicer."

Wait--why am I ringing him? Don't I have anyone better to say goodbye to?

"Hi, Mother. I'm on my way to this huge interview, so I can't stop. I just wanted to tell you, in case I don't get a chance for a while, that I've been offered a job with a tremendous future. All my troubles are over. I've never been happier. At any rate, I'll ring later--my taxi's here. Love you." (Click. Croak.)

Faugh, those are the worst last words ever. Maybe that's the reason nobody says anything much, outside of the movies--what can you say, in your last couple of seconds? If you hadn't said it already, it probably wasn't worth the effort.

It's not the last-words thing that gets me, though. It's not as if one's life is graded by the quality of one's last words. I just don't want to slip away suddenly, without having time to prepare. I want to be comfortable, and I want everyone else to be comfortable, and I don't want the coroner to find me in some disgusting condition. I try not to imagine my own death, but the thought occasionally creeps in, especially on days when my health is particularly bad:

If I died today, my body would be wearing a shirt with nineteen holes in it. Maybe I should change, just in case. Hey! I've got to stop thinking this way! I've felt this bad a million times, and never died once. This isn't how death feels, at all. Silly rat. Go to sleep.

Or--

If I died in the shower, my flesh would liquefy and pour itself down the drain. A bit of bone might go in, too, and then the pipes would clog up. Can you imagine the mess? What a way to be remembered! Maybe I should brush my hair, at least.... Oh, that reminds me--I'm completely out of conditioner. Got to put that on the shopping list*.

--or--

It looks like Paddy's market in here. I could trip over something and die. I'd be found in the middle of a huge mess. It would be in the papers: MESSY PERSON FOUND DEAD IN GIANT MESS. My gravestone would read "I hate tidying up," like Daisy's always saying on Keeping Up Appearances.

Most of all, I hope my last thoughts are nowhere along these lines:

Oh, no! This is it! This is really it, the end, and I never got to....

I'm the sort of person who likes to save my last bite of cake for consumption during a particularly satisfying bit of book, or the end of my favourite program. I like things to feel tied together--complete, sort of thing. It would be such a disappointment if the last thing I ever got to think wasn't...fun. Ah, if I could just be assured of going out with a pleasant memory in my head, I wouldn't mind at all!

Ugh. What a morbid entry. Teach me to write in my journal right after working on a zombie illustration. I think I'll go die a few times in Final Fantasy land now. It's all right to die, when you can just load your game and try again. (It's also fine to die when your body magically dissolves at the moment of extremity. Very handy, indeed.)

* And if I were really dying, would I still be thinking of the shopping list? What if that was my last thought ever? "Got to put in an order with the grocery shop." What a way to go!