The Beginning of the End

This is the beginning of the end. With the word ‘end’ I mean the departure from the physical world; a euphemistic interpretation to complement death. By beginning I mean my wife, not daring to look at me, tears streaming down her face. I mean myself, trying to comprehend what I had just heard. I mean a moment where a simple sentence is suspended in the air: “Sir, tests have shown that you have cancer cells in your liver and intrahepatic bile duct, and I’m sorry to say that it has already reached quite an advanced stage.”

 God has forsaken me. That was the first thought that came to mind as at that moment. However later on I came to realise that there is no God, since it is impossible for a higher being to condone the suffering, the mental trauma that I endured and am enduring, it was simple. However this death sentence posed a more pressing question other than the metaphysical, was I going to accept it? Did I have a choice? I’ve had time to think my life through, to search in every crevice of my mind for an answer, and I think I have come to a conclusion.

 Until presented with a death sentence, one does not often think about the inevitability of death. No one thinks that regardless whether you’re 14, 40 or 80 years old, you are still going to die eventually. So what is the point of living under this inborn death sentence of which I was simply reminded? Maybe it can be comprehended from the mind of a suicidal adolescent who does not have the courage to end his life. A suicidal adolescent does not end his life because he is encumbered with the unknown; he does not know whether tomorrow is going to be a better day, he is hoping life will give him a reason not to die. I, a 43 year old, have come to not look forward to a tomorrow.

 I have also thought about those close to me. As I saw the crystal tears streaming down my wife’s face the day of the diagnosis, I could not help but feel a certain warmth, someone would actually yearn for my presence when I’m gone. However, what I realised embittered me. It is said that one understands himself through the lens of others, but no one ever said it could work the complete opposite way. I feel that every human is selfish, that no matter how well masked, every action done by man is done for one’s own interest, subconsciously. If I choose to help a destitute man, I will be helping this man in full knowledge that I am better than him, I am condescending, I am doing this so I can feel the satisfaction, not of helping, but of helping someone who is much lower than me on a level of whatever I have. I was known as a loyal man, but I was burdened by the fact that I couldn’t find a reason why I help, and it is because I’m so inconceivably selfish. And in my wife’s tears, there wasn’t a single thought of me. Quite like me, she was asking the question: “Why me?”

 I come to the conclusion that my death therefore won’t matter. I won’t ascend to heaven, or descend to hell. I do not look forward to tomorrow because I know for sure that it will not better my position, for the most part it will worsen it. I also know that no one will miss my presence, that there is no genuine feeling in sorrow but a genuine feeling for oneself. And finally I know, that death is inevitable, and whether I welcome it or not, it is not my choice to make