At the end of your life, you think of your family, your friends and your accomplishments. You are there remembering every new lover, every experience that gave you goosebumps and made the little hairs on the back of your neck stick up. Smiles, laughs, tears and everything that makes up our human lives.
Most people ask themselves the most two dreaded questions: ‘Did I make my time in this world count?’ or ‘When i’m gone, will i be remembered as someone who made a difference?’. For the majority of people, the answer to both of those questions is no. It's harsh to say, but until we can begin to figure out the purpose of all human existence on this planet, then both of these questions are null.
The ridiculously labelled ‘Normal’ person, would concur that a life well lived would include an average education and a happy childhood, a fun adventurous phase where one would travel the world to gain experiences and knowledge. Following this, it is assumed that falling deeply and head over heels in love and settling down to have a family is the next stage of life. Gain a few pets, watch the 2.4 children grow up in a proper respectful manner, and retire early and spend your last new days clutching the hand of your loved one.
Some people think about what is ahead of them. The more religious people are calmed by the idea of eternity in a place they have been striving to reach since day one; whilst others are just waiting to be out of pain due to whatever illness has befallen their bodies. Families wait in worry, knowing that the grieving process will be hard and come with some very difficult situations. Others have no family around them, laying in a hospital bed without a soul knowing about their demise. It’s sad to think of these people as a possibly healthy and relatively young person. Nobody wishes for the latter situation to be them, but when it comes to the end, for some, it’s inevitable.
Humans are very quick to judge their fellow primates. They will obsessively show their fake appreciation to mental health causes on social media, talk about smiling to the vulnerable and the elderly to pacify the stereotypes of younger generations, but when it comes to the suicidal nights alone, or the dreaded diagnosis day, your ‘friends’ phones are suddenly put on silent, nobody wants to hear about your sorrows, the craziness in your head or basically anything that will make them have to feel something. So you take those pills, you cry on your own in front of the consultant, because the next time you will be appreciated is when you’re in a hollowed out box six foot under. That’s how this shit works, people won’t bother with you until you’re dead.
All anybody can hope for is the death to be quick and painless, following a long, happy and fulfilled life. Surrounded by family and friends all laughing and making each last moment with you the best you could have ever wished for, they hope for a funeral that is both meaningful and joyous. People say they don't want it to be a sad occasion, for their loved ones to celebrate their life instead of crying and breaking down. But what people don’t voice, is that if they were to attend their own funeral, and nobody shed a tear, they would be sorely disappointed.
My last questions would be ‘How old am i?’ and ‘Is anyone here?’. Seems futile i know, but it’s all that matters in my story. I want to know how many years that I survived, how many years I managed to keep my heart beating even when I was so distressingly sad. I want to know if my loved ones are okay. I want them to be there, sad I'm gone but celebrating my life and sharing my story.