It can be difficult to combine the feeling of being young and immortal with the knowledge that everything will one day end. Halloween and All Saints’ Day get Emma Andersson thinking about dry eyes and how to find what’s right for you before it is all too late.
My parents ring me up late in the evening. My grandmother’s partner – the closest thing I ever had to a grandfather – is dead. It was an expected announcement. Alzheimer’s and cancer is not to trifle with, but I hear it ended peacefully. To just drift off feels like the best way to die, if you are given an opportunity to choose.
I nod and wake my sister. They tell her as well. Afterwards, we barely know what to say. We go to bed. Not until the next evening, when we ring up my grandmother, the tears come to my sister’s eyes. As for myself, I cannot cry.
I don’t know why.
The same thing happened when my classmate’s little brother died in high school. Out of the twenty girls and five boys in our classroom, nineteen girls had to spend the next class saving their make-up. One girl and five boys didn’t cry. I was that girl.
The entire class was invited to the funeral. I had a bag full of napkins but only doled them out to others. My eyes were dry. I didn’t know why.
When I was nine years old, I had two favourite films. The Lion King and The Brothers Lionheart. I likely never considered that they were about death until one of my friends looked at me quizzically, not knowing what films I was talking about. At her house, there was no talk of nasty things. They were definitely not allowed to watch films or read books that could stir up emotions, lead to difficult questions or make anyone sad. I envisioned her parents spelling out nasty things so that their children wouldn’t understand, as in bad American films. Honey, something has happened. It’s about D-E-A-T-H.
I felt rebellious, deciding that we would watch The Lion King at my house. Even today, the scene where little Simba finds his dead father and tries to call for help is one of the most heart-wrenching moments I have ever experienced.
My friend’s cheeks were streaked white from salty tears when she walked home. We agreed to watch The Brothers Lionheart next time.
In actuality, we are surrounded by death. Every day, people die in wars, famine and disease. They die en route to a better world. In our relatively safe corner of the world, death appears mainly in culture. Detective novels about gruesome murders sell like hot cakes, YA literature is dominated by vampires, zombies and dystopian societies. A couple of years ago, cinema audiences cried rivers to the film version of John Green’s cancer-love novel The Fault in Our Stars. At the same time, author George R. R. Martin is trying to wean us of the comforting idea of the always triumphant hero by killing off his most beloved main characters one by one. No one is safe. Death throws itself at us when we least expect it. Somewhat like in real life.
Or is it?
In Jenny Downham’s novel Before I Die, sixteen year old Tessa is dying in leukaemia. As hinted at in the title, there are a couple of things Tessa wants to do before she dies. For example, she wants to have sex, try out drugs and break the law.
When I read the book in high school, it offered an exciting way to think about life. Where would the danger be in professing one’s secret love, going all in for an impossible career dream or giving up being the good girl if this perhaps was the very last day in life?
The book made me thinking about courage and risk taking in life. It also made me frustrated. My life could not really compare to Tessa’s. When life goes on, things have consequences. I can do whatever I want, but I would also have to live with it. If I break the law, I risk being punished. If I make a fool of myself in front of people I care about, I will probably have to meet them again.
I often think in risks. What will I risk if I do this? Is it worth it? Some things are easier to dare than others. For me, it was not as scary to send a book to a publisher as to tell a guy that I fancied him. Perhaps it’s about showing vulnerability. Perhaps that is why subjects such as death are more difficult to talk about. It stirs emotions and gets personal.
There does not seem to be that much room for discussions on death or subjects that might seem difficult in student life either. Death is (or should at least be) distant from us, and that is why it might be easier to wave off. There is often talk about young people feeling immortal, and in many ways, that is how it feels. We are not meant to dwell on things that hopefully will not happen for many years.
Come spring, I will receive my Master’s degree, and that will mark the end of student life for me. It’s always sad when an era in one’s life ends. It’s the act of leaving a part of oneself behind, knowing it will never return.
The future is uncertain, but we know what awaits us. Or at least what is expected of us. A secure job, a secure relationship, a secure living. Maybe children. At the end of my time as a student, I am expected to have worked out what I want. Because every new level I pass gives direction to my life. Adds to the list of ingredients.
Now, I am supposed to be ready baked, and that terrifies me. I am scared of getting stuck. Afraid of security and comfort. It feels good to sit down and difficult to march on. There are still so many things I want to do. The chairs are being taken, one by one, but I cannot sit down yet.
I find so much comfort in people telling it the way it is. Why make a fuss? Why trust in some form of mind-reading that the majority of us will not have anyway? There is no more time for lies or silence. Only when we talk can we help each other.
For every passing year, I grow more courageous, even if it is at a slow pace. Risk-taking is an ongoing calculation. Regret is the keyword. I do not ever want to regret doing or not doing something.
At my step-grandfather’s funeral, the priest says that the worst thing about death might be how it forces us to confront ourselves. Our own lives. Our own mortality.
I think that the only thing I can do is to be true to myself. Follow my dreams, dare to try. Not force myself into a mould to suit someone else. Because it is my life. And I don’t know if I will get a second chance.
After my classmate’s brother’s funeral, I take the train home. When I step onto the platform, my best friend is standing there. We haven’t made a date, and I don’t know where she is going. Perhaps she is there to catch the train I just left.
She asks if everything is all right. I nod, thinking that everyone must believe that I am a cold psychopath.
She hugs me. Holds me tight.
And I don’t know why.
But then I cry.
Article: Emma Andersson
Translation: Carl-William Ersgård
