Nails in the Coffin

Conception is the first nail in the coffin we know as life. In no small matter of irony, a mother’s decision to bear a child instead of aborting one is the second. Third is the moment of escape from the comfortable, protective warmth of the womb, and we emerge into the harsh, cold, unfamiliar, and often unfriendly world.

From the second of birth, we’re on a single path. A continual, albeit fluctuating, grade of downhill motion toward the grave. Every single inhalation of necessary oxygen into our lungs takes us another breath closer to physical death. And let’s not forget about the myriad things, mundane or otherwise, that lead to mental demise.

I’m not referring to such tragic diagnoses as Alzheimer’s or dementia, although those, too, qualify as another nail calling out our end. I’m referring to every heartbreaking disappointment, each soul-rendering loss, whether it be:

The birthday everyone forgot (no Happy Birthday! telephone call. No cards in the mail. No presents wrapped in pretty paper tied with pretty bows. No birthday dinners, not even a belated birthday wish after the fact)…

The burial of the person we love most (leaving us alone and gutted in our sorrow).

 Or, the devastating exit of a lover who decided we weren’t enough (despite having given them our trust and loyalty and every fragment of our heart), leaving us more damaged than ever and sobbing endlessly into our pillow, asking why wasn’t I enough? (The answer, by the way, which will take us multiple boxes of tissues to figure out, is they weren’t enough).

All those things and countless others that destroy us one tiny piece… or in huge chunks… at a time.

And then there are the double whammies we may be hit with in our misfortune. Those get us two stakes in the casket, one for how it affects every aspect of our emotions and overall mental health, and one for all the ways it ravages our body. Cancer, liver failure, advanced kidney disease, diabetes, autoimmune diseases... all jealously competing to be the culprit instrumental in hastening the dying process in all ways it (they) can.

The list of possibilities is virtually endless and beyond dismal.

So what’s the point in this often formidable experience we call life? Is it in hopes of reaching an afterlife in a land filled with milk and honey where the streets are paved with gold? A heavenly place filled with angelic voices singing nonstop beautiful melodies of praise?

Perhaps. After all, who can honestly resist the call of a better tomorrow… a future minus all the concerns, letdowns, and losses? An Eden in which perpetual happiness, peace, and love usurp all disappointments, one where sadness is nonexistent?

It’s monumentally more appealing than dying unhappy, one breath at a time, until we have no more breaths remaining.

Or are our daily trials a fair trade for the wonders that exist in this life as we reluctantly, continually, journey toward that last call… the day, the hour, the minute, when fate deigns that our travels are over?

Could that fair trade be:

The sunlight when it kisses the tears of disappointments from our cheeks? Or the gentle breezes that dry them from our eyes? Would they be a reasonable exchange for the hardships?

What about the first cries or suckles of a newborn babe, given the dubious privilege of birth by a woman who longed for motherhood? Is that sufficient barter for our tribulations?

And then there’s the connection with a lover who’d never even think to question whether we’re enough. We are more than enough. One who’d cherish us always and stand by our side, no matter the circumstances, no matter how horrific they may be. Would the lover who stays make everything worth it?

What if we combined all the small wonders… the smile of an innocent child, a gentle, refreshing rain shower cooling the hot temperature of a summer day, the smell of freshly-perked coffee on a cold winter morning?  

Would an amalgamation of untold little joys add up to… or possibly even exceed… the sum of a fair trade? An acceptable price for what we must survive before responding to the reaper’s dreaded phrase, “Last call?”

Still uncertain? One last possibility: Every small joy to be had from this existence, combined with the knowledge of a peaceful and perfect future following our final chapter on this earth. If all else isn’t amply convincing to make the insufferable hammering of nails into that pine box tolerable, would this option suffice?

For me, it does.