Does it hurt to die?
Have you ever thought about that? If it hurts to die? I'm not even talking about a person dying in a horrible accident or from an injury of some sort, but I just wonder if it hurts to actually DIE? Does the end of life hurt? I could get into a bunch of spiritual stuff, because I am a Christian, but I don't want to go there on this, really. I just wonder if dying is painful. What if the final thought we have on earth is "ouch"? After my dad died (immediately after), I was obsessed with the question of if he felt pain from dying. Not pain from having an amputated leg, or from having kidney failure, or out of control diabetes, but dying pain. Was his last conscious thought "ow!" (Just for kicks, my dad would say it was...) I fretted over the concept that there might have been just pain from leaving this life. From leaving his broken body to go to Heaven. I worried that his last thought was of me, and how I was going to handle it. But, mostly, I worried about any pain he might have felt when his soul (the most important part of him) left his body...
You know what? That pissed me off the most. Here I was staring at his BODY. But, as I would hear approximately forty million times in the next five days, "It wasn't HIM." His essence had gone. I just as well have been looking at a drawing of a person, or a painting. Or a portrait of my dad. It just goes to show that a person is their soul. Not this carriage we use to transport the damn thing around here. But I was mad! I mean, why couldn't his body have gone to heaven, and his soul been left here with me? That's the part I wanted! His soul! His body was no good to me! It couldn't laugh on its own or push me over for the fun of it. It couldn't give me "that look" when I was making no sense on any given subject. The body could just lay there. It just as well have been a deflated balloon.
But back to my original issue...Did dying hurt my dad? I'm going to say no because my mom was in the room with him when he did die. He turned his head to one side, gurgled a little bit, and was gone. Just Like That. I interrogated my mom for hours. "Did he make a sound?" "Did he cry out?" "Did he scream?" "Did he ask for me?" "Did he claw at the blankets or writhe around?" No, he just turned his head, gurgled a little, and was gone. Full code within seconds. They worked on him for 30 minutes. 20 minutes more than they normally work on people, but the doctor didn't want to give up. (I cry really hard whenever I type/write/talk about that part. Them working on him. His poor body had been through so much by this point. The thought of them straddling him in his hospital bed, trying to CPR him back into life makes me want to scream. If I would have been there, I would have screamed at them to stop, and then screamed louder when they wouldn't have been doing anything. For some reason, this part makes it so real to me.) I truly believe that dad was gone by then. Dead. There was no bringing him back.
You know, I seem to blog about this all the time. I'm sure people are probably sick to freakin' death (no pun intended) of hearing about my dad and how he died and all that crap. I could go on for hours, please believe. But, considering it's the most monumental event that has ever happened in my life, I am having a hard time getting my arms around it. Blogging helps me sort through things and get them out of the blender that is my brain. My friend told me it was theraputic. She was right! It seems like spewing these thoughts out on this site helps me sort them in alphabetical order in the file cabinet in my head. If I don't, they just go swirling and dancing and end up bouncing against each other. Well, not exactly. My thoughts are angry and pushy. They don't dance and swirl. They collide and crash. They burst and juke. They maneuver and fly. Sometimes they might spin around like a washing machine cycle, but they don't swirl. Where the hell did I come up with that?? I could be so lucky as to have my thoughts swirl instead of banging around behind my eyeballs.
That's all for me for tonight. Soon to come: My thoughts on what it will be like when I die. Obviously interspersed with my beliefs and what I think happened when my dad died. Imagine that. Bring a friend.
You know what? That pissed me off the most. Here I was staring at his BODY. But, as I would hear approximately forty million times in the next five days, "It wasn't HIM." His essence had gone. I just as well have been looking at a drawing of a person, or a painting. Or a portrait of my dad. It just goes to show that a person is their soul. Not this carriage we use to transport the damn thing around here. But I was mad! I mean, why couldn't his body have gone to heaven, and his soul been left here with me? That's the part I wanted! His soul! His body was no good to me! It couldn't laugh on its own or push me over for the fun of it. It couldn't give me "that look" when I was making no sense on any given subject. The body could just lay there. It just as well have been a deflated balloon.
But back to my original issue...Did dying hurt my dad? I'm going to say no because my mom was in the room with him when he did die. He turned his head to one side, gurgled a little bit, and was gone. Just Like That. I interrogated my mom for hours. "Did he make a sound?" "Did he cry out?" "Did he scream?" "Did he ask for me?" "Did he claw at the blankets or writhe around?" No, he just turned his head, gurgled a little, and was gone. Full code within seconds. They worked on him for 30 minutes. 20 minutes more than they normally work on people, but the doctor didn't want to give up. (I cry really hard whenever I type/write/talk about that part. Them working on him. His poor body had been through so much by this point. The thought of them straddling him in his hospital bed, trying to CPR him back into life makes me want to scream. If I would have been there, I would have screamed at them to stop, and then screamed louder when they wouldn't have been doing anything. For some reason, this part makes it so real to me.) I truly believe that dad was gone by then. Dead. There was no bringing him back.
You know, I seem to blog about this all the time. I'm sure people are probably sick to freakin' death (no pun intended) of hearing about my dad and how he died and all that crap. I could go on for hours, please believe. But, considering it's the most monumental event that has ever happened in my life, I am having a hard time getting my arms around it. Blogging helps me sort through things and get them out of the blender that is my brain. My friend told me it was theraputic. She was right! It seems like spewing these thoughts out on this site helps me sort them in alphabetical order in the file cabinet in my head. If I don't, they just go swirling and dancing and end up bouncing against each other. Well, not exactly. My thoughts are angry and pushy. They don't dance and swirl. They collide and crash. They burst and juke. They maneuver and fly. Sometimes they might spin around like a washing machine cycle, but they don't swirl. Where the hell did I come up with that?? I could be so lucky as to have my thoughts swirl instead of banging around behind my eyeballs.
That's all for me for tonight. Soon to come: My thoughts on what it will be like when I die. Obviously interspersed with my beliefs and what I think happened when my dad died. Imagine that. Bring a friend.
posted by Nebraska Angie @ 8:13 PM
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