The Relief of Death

Something that I don’t see a lot of people talking about is the relief that comes with death.

Maybe its because we aren’t supposed to say it, just like mothers aren’t supposed to say yes, I love my children, but if I could do it again, I wouldn’t. There is an uncomfortable honesty that comes with both of these things, and so we just don’t say them. Because we are taught to not make other people uncomfortable and we are taught to keep the honesty in if it doesn’t match up with societal norms. And we are taught that death isn’t something we talk about, and feeling relieved that someone died is most certainly something that should be kept to yourself.

But fuck it.

There is a relief that comes with death. A big, fat sigh of relief covered in grief (grelief, if you will,) that comes when someone or something that you love dies. It has nothing to do with, oh, they are in a better place. It has nothing to do with anything other than, I don’t have to carry this with me anymore. 

I’ve had this essay in my back pocket for about a month now, letting it swirl around my brain until I had a moment or two of clarity to sit down and write it out.

Last month, I did something I have never done in my life, and that was deciding when to end a life. And that is a big responsibility, as well as a privilege if you look at it right. Our dog, Ryker, had been diagnosed with bone cancer, and even though he was still doing well on the quality-of-life scale, bone cancer throws a wrench in deciding when to let them go. Because with bone cancer, it’s a when, not an if, a bone will break. This could happen while doing the most mundane thing, like adjusting his body during his sleep to get more comfortable. So even though he was eating, joyful, happy to see us, still playing with the other dogs and playing with his toys, we were all living with the bated breath of someone playing with a jack-in-the-box or the Operation game. Will today be the day he breaks a leg? For weeks, I agonized over letting him go too early, because the quality of life scale said he was ok, but knowing that if I waited too long, that he would experience pain and suffering and that his last day would be his worst. Eventually, I found peace with the adage that a week too early is better than a day too late. I scheduled his appointment, I gave him a really good last day, and then I held him in my arms until he crossed over. It was my job to make sure he never had to experience his worst day, and I did it.

And then I took a breath of grelief. Because it was done. Because I didn’t have to spend the rest of my days wondering if I was waiting too long, or when would it be too late, or was it too soon, or was he suffering unnecessarily, or was he not ready, or would he forgive me or would I have to live with the guilt of ending his life, or would we have to run him to the emergency vet in the middle of the night and find a way to carry his 80 pound body in a manner that didn’t cause him more pain, or feeling guilty and selfish because I waited too long or feeling guilty and selfish because I did it too soon. I didn’t have to wonder if I should take the trip or stay home or what medicines were working or what weren’t. And this is what I am talking about. The relief of death.

I talked about this some when my dog Linus died. I wrote about something called anticipatory grief, which is something many, many people experience. I spent almost 14 years in anticipatory grief over Linus, knowing that one day, he would die. And accompanying the anticipatory grief, was the anxiety of when, how, will I have to decide, will he get hit by a car, will he suffer, will it be painful, how will we manage to move him if he is in so much pain and is trying to bite us and we can’t help him. Will he die overnight. While I’m at work. Long story short, he died at home, while I was on vacation. I never had to choose, and he died in the arms of the man who loved him very much- his big guy. And with that death, too, came relief. Overwhelming sadness, but relief. I could stop wondering. Obsessing. Crying over a day sometime down the road.

If the anticipatory grief over my dog consumed me, the anticipatory grief of my dad dying was all encompassing. I don’t think one day went by that I didn’t think, my dad is going to die someday. Every time he stayed with us- even for months on end- every morning that he slept late, I was scared he died in his sleep, so I would knock on his door before leaving for work. Every time my phone rang, I would hold my breath, thinking it was going to be someone calling me to tell me he was gone. Every time I would text him and I didn’t get an immediate response, I would feel like throwing up. So then I would call until he answered, and he was usually on a ladder or something, painting a house and I would say, DAD, DON’T ANSWER THE PHONE WHILE YOU ARE ON A LADDER! Even though I was always glad he did. Sometimes he would just be watching baseball, or watching a movie, and just wouldn’t see the text. So, until he called me back, I couldn’t breathe. This is actually how I knew my dad was gone- I texted him on a Thursday night, and he didn’t answer. So I called. And he didn’t answer. And I tried not to panic, I told myself that maybe the time change was messing with his sleep schedule and he went to bed early. That his phone was on silent and across the room. Somehow I slept that night. Maybe my soul already knew there was nothing else I could do. That’s the only explanation I have for being able to sleep that night, but I did. When I woke up Friday morning, I woke up drenched in dread. I called, and there was still no answer. Not the sound of him rustling around to answer, not the sleepy voice on the other end. I went to my husband and said, “something is wrong with my dad.” I texted my sister, “something is wrong with dad.” All because he didn’t answer. And he DID die in his sleep, and I DID eventually get a call that he was gone, so maybe I am psychic after all. But point being, one of the first things I thought after getting that phone call was: I don’t have to worry about this day anymore. The worst day has come, and now I don’t have to wait for it. It is here. It is done. Although I miss the person I was

And there is, once again, a relief to that. A relief that no one talks about. Because how do you say, I am relieved my dad died and not sound like a monster? I am not relieved that my dad is dead- I am relieved that I no longer have to live in fear of the day he would die. I hope that makes sense. It does to me. I feel like people who are caregivers, or family of terminally ill people, feel this too. It just goes unsaid. I just happen to have a lot to say about death right now, like how there is also a different kind of relief, another thing I no longer have to be afraid of: death itself.

I used to be afraid of dying, and now death is just this… thing… this thing that already took so many of the things I love and traded them for heartbreak. I could die every day now that my dad is dead. I miss the person I was when he was alive. Because what do you mean I could live another 40 years without him?? My grief is this shadow that will live with me for the rest of my days, and that alone makes me not afraid of facing my own death anymore. And to be honest, some days the idea of death feels so much more appealing than worrying about the next person or thing I will lose to it. So, I’m sure, when I die, that there will be a relief that comes with that as well. To me, to those who love me, and to those that will outlive me- even 40 years from now.

I just hope by that time, people are more comfortable talking about their grelief ™ and stop holding everything in for once. It’s stupid.