I have a profound relationship with death. I question it, analyze it, and examine it closely. Whenever someone mentions it, my senses come alive; my eyes spark with interest, and my tongue tingles. I relish the moments when my existentialism becomes social.
My library has a section dedicated to thanatology, featuring a first-class bibliography. I explore death through poetry, biographies, fiction, and psychoanalysis. It also features narratives by extraterrestrial beings and, of course, multi-religious perspectives. My aspiration is to understand death, and to that end, I meditate fervently, searching for my soul. Innocently I imagine that someday, by comprehending my own ghost, I will be able to voluntarily leave my body.
M, my husband, does not share my interest. His existentialism is mild, and his experience of life is agreeable and quaint—some might say he is fortunate. In his sleepless nights, his mind revolves around culinary recipes and practical concerns, such as the vision of a deeply green garden, free of autumn's fallen leaves.
Amid the contrast of his lightness and my density lies our everyday life. We play our roles. Nevertheless, since M's reality is somewhat simple, it often feels like he could learn a little about the depth of his existence. That’s why, during moments of relaxation, I seize the opportunity to share my musings with him.
M listens attentively, mirroring my words. Sometimes he even asks questions, and I respond with fascination. Yet, in my trance, his eyes may meet mine, unwittingly revealing his thoughts. I smile, feeling a twinge of guilt—poor thing, I know I can be a burden. I don't say anything, but the density of the air shifts. I pretend it doesn’t matter, except that M, always talented, manoeuvres with imperceptible grace, fitting one phrase after another until he brings order to the universe: 'I will prepare lunch. Will you please go outside and gather the leaves?'"
Less than an hour later, when I re-enter the house, we are in silent connection and enveloped in the comfort of our routine. The table is set, and the meal is served. M is enthusiastic about his preparation; now it is time to evaluate the flavour of his sleeplessness.
This is how our life unfolds, at times and almost always. It may seem, in the act of doing, that we are very different. Yet our deep waters connect in certain events, and we synchronise beyond our differences.
M has hidden his existentialism, and it pleases me to expose it. He engages in deep thoughts and actions to gain some footing against the inevitability of death. M spends considerable time buying and accumulating life insurance policies. Every so often, he shares that he has acquired a new plan. Then, he presents me with another. He talks about banks, funds, and insurance companies—most in his name, some in mine, but I amount to mere coins. M is compulsive, and I make a point of it: "You are worth more dead than alive." He laughs, feeling satisfied and at peace.
Recently, I had a nightmare. What if? I dreamed of myself, standing in front of our filing cabinet, overwhelmed by the bureaucracy that M revels in. Inside this silent, ordinary piece of furniture was the vast and incomprehensible collection of documents, contracts, codes, and accounts—our entire life trapped in a crushing puzzle.
I found myself in an impossible, deep pit of desolation. For the first time, aware of the possibility of M's death, I explored how D-day would unfold. With a stiff back and a swollen heart, I realised I would no longer exist in time or space; I would be holding on to a fragile thread of inertia, trying to fit the universe through a tight tube of misery. The children: ground pulp. Breathing. Eating. And then paying bills, fulfilling obligations, and tackling an insurmountable list of pending tasks.
And there it was: the insufferable filing cabinet. Damn that filing cabinet. So much philosophising about death, so many abstract mentions of savings, pension plans, bills and policies, and the thought of ending up in an unbearable limbo navigating a labyrinth of incomprehensible pragmatism felt utterly devastating.
As it dawned I shared my terror with M, and his eyes widened with panic. "We'll make a map," he declared.
That morning, time dragged on, both slowly and urgently, as we tried to escape our routines. M was meditative but, above all, ridiculously cautious. I watched him carefully gripping the bannister while descending the stairs. Like a hypochondriac, he waved his left arm gently, ensuring nothing hurt near his heart.
By midday, we managed to clear our tasks and sat down to organise...death. We created a map detailing links, user names, passwords, and numbers. We also drafted our wills, which, as dictated by Swiss law, must be kept in the drawer in one's bedside table. When the D-day arrives—according to our research—the heartbroken spouse will point to the corresponding side of the bed, and the validity will be confirmed by a witness (whomever that might be).
We finished faster than M's bureaucratic mess had led us to expect. Death felt light again; we allowed it to slowly fade into the background, making it almost nonexistent.
We returned to our daily routine, but it coincided with M leaving for the airport that afternoon. As we said goodbye, we laughed with nervous complicity, embracing each other awkwardly, aware of what we had just done. We shared an emptiness in the stomach, asking the universe to un-manifest whatever plan we had just mapped.
United by existentialism—humbled, small, and powerless—we trusted that we would continue to nurture life through our differences, enjoying comforting meals and discussions while intertwining meaning in the ordinary rhythm of everyday life.
The end.
Thank you for reading.
Adriana