Friday morning

Years ago, even before I embraced Buddhism and the Tao, I felt like I had overcome my fear of death. Maybe overcome isn't the word; maybe I should say I had just grown tired of fearing death.

It wasn't that I was suicidal –– I wasn't going to seek death. But I had been at my father's side when he died, and after I had been a reporter 25 years, I felt like I had seen so much drama of all sorts that I wouldn't resist or resent it when the time came to leave it all behind. Death could be painful, and sometimes a hell of an inconvenience, but being sucked dry by emotional vampires of all sorts is also exhausting, as is watching humanity act out the AA definition of insanity –– 'doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results.'

But on the Sunday before I entered the hospital, I wasn't so sure about accepting death. I already had the 'untreatable stomach cancer' scenario unwinding in my mind, and was imagining the moment when the doctor told me I was going to die. I had been with my dad when the doc told him he would die. I wanted to play it better than he had. He took it calmly but resignedly, with a sort of general muttering about unfairness. I wanted to be able to accept it with a good pleasant Buddhist equanimity. I wasn't sure I could do that.

I think the very fact I was rehearsing my response, though, suggests I wasn't prepared to accept the inevitable arrival of death of Sunday night.

But by Monday morning, something had changed. I was in a cheerful, rather buoyant mood –– better than I had felt in weeks. I was no longer rehearsing for my big scene. I was ready to accept whatever happened. It was beyond my control. And it still is. It was all okay and remains okay now.