The strange mercy of death
We spend our lives running from death, as if fear itself could keep it away. I did too, until illness, loss, and grief forced me to face it head on. What I found was not only terror, but something unexpected. A quiet kind of mercy hidden inside the very thing I dreaded most.
Before I was fifteen, life felt untouched by darkness. I had a father whose presence was strong and steady, the kind of man who carried masculinity with grace, never with cruelty. My mother was tender and radiant, a softness that made the home feel safe. Together they gave me a childhood I still wish upon every child. Encouraged to grow, nurtured to explore, never doubting I was loved. It was near perfect, the kind of life that makes you believe the world is good and unbreakable.
And then it broke.
At fifteen, I was dying of cancer. The illness ripped through the shield of innocence I thought would protect me forever. Suddenly the world was no longer safe. I was staring directly at the thing no child should ever have to face — the possibility of an early death. The hospital lights, the cold touch of the plastic tubes, the sharp sting of antiseptic, the quiet beeping of machines tracking every flicker of my body, and the young children sharing my room who suddenly one day were no longer there. That became the backdrop of my adolescence. While friends worried about school dances, I wondered if I would still be alive in a year.
The brush with death did not leave when the treatments ended. It followed me like a shadow for the decade to come. The strain shattered my parents’ marriage, and the house that once overflowed with love turned into a place of psychological abuse. And as if cancer was not enough, death kept knocking in other ways. Parents, family, loved ones, one by one, gone, often suddenly, often in what others would call freak accidents. Each loss cracked the foundation a little more, until death was not just a possibility, but a constant companion.
I became trapped in what I can only call a death spiral. It became too real that one day it would be my turn, and that day could come far sooner than I imagined. My heart would stop, my body would grow cold, and all the memories, all the love, all the laughter I had collected would vanish into nothing. The unknown was unbearable. Nobody comes back to tell us what happens when the light goes out. Nobody can soften the silence. I imagined myself erased completely, the world carrying on as though I had never been. That void terrified me.
For years, fear was the language I spoke with death. But slowly, curiosity crept in. If death is the one mystery nobody can solve while alive, then the day it comes will be the day I finally receive my answer. And if there is no answer, if the lights go out and nothing remains, then I will not be here to care. That simple realization loosened the chains a little.
And then I began to see death differently. I had only measured it by the good it would take. The warmth of holding someone’s hand. The joy of laughter echoing in a room. The sweetness of a meal shared with people I love. The music, the sunsets, the small miracles of daily living. All of that will be taken, yes. And it is heavy.
Death does take, but it takes — everything.
It ends the restlessness, the worry that gnaws, the regrets that weigh us down. It erases heartbreak, shame, the loneliness we bury, the compulsive thoughts that circle endlessly. It silences the ache of the body and the sting of pain. All of it gone.
So I realized that death is a thief, but a thief that steals everything. Everything, even what we wish gone.
That understanding changed how I live with the thought of death. I no longer see it as a cliff edge in the dark, but as the next step in a story that has always been full of steps into the unknown. Birth was a step. Falling in love was a step. Death is simply another.
The fear that once suffocated me has softened into something closer to acceptance. When my time comes, I want to meet it not trembling, but with the quiet recognition that this too belongs to life. Death is not only an end. It is the final page turning. And what waits after, whether silence or another chapter, is part of the mystery that has always made life worth living.
Until then, I will live as fully as I can. And when death does arrive, I know there will probably still be a flicker of fear in me, but also curiosity, and maybe even relief. I do not know if I will find something, or nothing at all. But either way, it no longer feels like something to dread.
It feels like the final step into the great unknown, where all questions are finally answered — or finally forgotten.