The Feeling of Death

In some strange way, my car seems to allow me to a wider breadth of perception. I do lots of thinking in my car. I think about bills, the kids, my husband, his disease, goals in life, and family to name a few. I have said many prayers while sitting in my car on breaks at work or driving to work. I have analyzed dreams. There are fewer distractions in the car than when I am anywhere else. Years of panic attacks have taught me to always pay attention to my emotions and gut feelings. I have consistently dissected everything I feel either emotionally or physically in a way of self therapy to try to lessen the attacks.

In the middle of last week, I had a sensation I had not felt since I was much younger, while I was in my car on my way to work. I was probably thirteen the first time I experienced the sensation. I was sleeping over at my grandparents' house with my two sisters. This particular night I was having a terrible time trying to go to sleep. I never had a problem with getting homesick when I was a kid. This night, I tossed and turned on the couch in the living room. It was always my favorite place to sleep, but this night I could feel something wasn't right. I didn't know what it was. This feeling encompassed me. It was like fear or anxiety or sadness, but none of the above. It was a feeling that had no name that I was aware of. I started crying quietly. I lay there with tears rolling down my face in the dark on the couch. I refused to ask to go home or wake anyone. I didn't understand what was wrong with me, but I wasn't afraid.

I eventually fell into a light sleep and was awakened by voices in the hallway. My great grandmother had been staying there that night also. She was lying on the bathroom floor. Her eyes were closed. She wasn't breathing. There was crying. At first, I just stood there. It didn't seem real. Grandma went to call for an ambulance. Back then, there was no 911 in our rural area. I knew the number off the top of my head. I was sent to run up the driveway to direct the ambulance in the right direction. I don't think I've ever run as fast as I did that night. After the ambulance headed to the house, I ran back. I stood in the hallway outside the bathroom door with my grandparents while the paramedic was checking my great grandmother.

The paramedic asked who knew how to administer CPR. I had just completed CPR training that afternoon with my parents. I had been given a card that stated I could instruct someone on how to administer CPR but I wasn't to do it myself. I didn't have enough body weight to put into the compressions. I told the paramedic this, but he insisted I help. He was the only other person present who knew CPR, and it would be a little while before help arrived. The one and only time I have ever done CPR was on my great grandmother who did not revive. When she was pronounced dead, I realized what I had felt that evening. I realized why my body had shook as tears flowed for no apparent reason. I had felt death. Death had been in the house.

For a long time, I waited to feel that sensation again. I believed that the next time I might be able to stop death. Thirteen years old and I felt somewhat responsible for the death of a family member. I kept thinking that I should have wakened someone. I should not have just lied there on the couch.

I spent a majority of my life waiting for my own death after being raped in front of my two best friends by the cousin of one of them. I prayed to God to kill me. I didn't care how. No pain could be worse than the pain I felt day after day. There have been a couple of times I probably should have died but didn't. You can imagine the conversation I had with God after them. In the middle of last week, I felt the sensation of death again. I didn't cry this time. I felt amazingly calm. I started thinking a lot though. Was it my turn? After work, I went home and made my funeral play list on the computer, just in case.

That weekend, a friend called late one evening. My great uncle had died from a heart attack. I felt no sadness. I felt nothing. This man had let me down when I was a teenager. I thought maybe that was why I didn't feel anything. Or maybe I felt nothing because I already knew the death was coming. I don't know. I didn't go to the funeral. I worked. I needed the money. I found it saddening that the death of a co-worker last year was more upsetting than that of a family member. I found it surprising that I felt death coming again after all these years. Why did I feel it for him? Will I ever feel it again? Does it really matter if I don't know who I'm feeling it for? My biggest questions though always remain the same. What is my purpose and where is my place? Why me?