I normally consider Rantazia a place where I get to rant freely without concern for being fair nor necessarily for being particularly rational. A place for my own particularly odd brand of humor at times as well. Certainly for both at once, when I’m in the mood for such a thing.

Now I’m going to discuss something I fear. Probably the first time for me. I don’t usually fear much. Or rather my fears are usually irrational or exaggerated and so I don’t usually honor them or give them more heed that they demand. This time I think my fear is, if not especially rational, at least approaching normal and maybe even healthy. That alone sets it apart.

My fear concerns death, which is something fairly new to me. And monkeys, which is not.

I think my whole outlook on the topic of death is undergoing some major overhaul recently. Up until now I never really thought much about dying (in the sense that it didn’t bother me, I mean.) I’ve actually spent most of my life trying to hurry things along so you can imagine if you asked me, say, two weeks ago I’d have said it didn’t concern me. If I were dying in a hospital bed I honestly don’t think I’d have had a very strong opinion one way or the other, whether to stay or go. And that itself is actually a very significant improvement from before when death was something I rather admired and looked forward to (or perhaps my infatuation was simply with the process of achieving it.)

Since I got married that kinda throws that for a loop. Now suddenly some very specific parts of the world that I care very much for will change with my passing and I’m concerned whether and to what degree that would be for the better or worse.

The thing that really clinches it is that someone I admire (on the interwebz, I mean) mentioning her husband have passed on, presumably long ago, and that my relationship with my husband reminds her of the relationship she had with him.

That terrified me for most of the day today. Stark raving terror a couple of times.

Because it occurred to me for the first time I think possibly ever to really consider what would happen to me if Matthew were gone. I honestly have trouble getting past even the thought. Which of course causes me to consider maybe he feels much the same way about my passing. So suddenly that’s a much more important issue than it ever was before.

On top of this the issue of euthanasia and assisted suicide came up amongst a couple of us over on TOL. Someone asked for an opinion on how best to respond to something someone else said on the matter. I gave my opinion in the attempt to be helpful but I was rather wracked with that mental image all day since then. My husband lying dying and in pain in a hospital bed. How that would make me feel. Followed, of course, by the image of myself in such a state and my husband feeling all the things I’d just imagined feeling.

Which is worse? Feeling those things or lying there knowing he’s feeling them and that I’m the cause of it?

I don’t yet know the answer to that. The question is so oppressive and frightening that it’s difficult to consider objectively. I do not want him to ever die, not before I do. And for the same exact reasons I don’t want to die either, not before he does. I don’t want to see him slip away and be left alone. I don’t want him to see me slip away and be left alone.

Now, I know as a Christian it’s a passing thing. A short period of time to suffer, for whichever of us is left behind. In the grand scheme of things not even worthy of being called a fleeting moment. But even that not-even-fleeting moment is terrifying.

I don’t know how to get beyond even the idea of it.

I’m rather convinced this is just another step in my growth. I’ve no doubt this is something most people have come to terms with long ago and something I long since should have. So I must say I know it’s good in the end and I’m glad for it.

Or rather, I’m sure I will be once it’s past. Right now I don’t like it. Part of me is angry that I’ve been placed in this position, allowed myself to fall into this position, where someone else has come to be as important to me as me. This is a weakness I’ve fought most of my life to steer well clear of and it seems from the moment I became a Christian that God has been leading me directly to this thing that I’ve so despised and feared my whole life.

And now here I am. The weakest I’ve ever been. Knowing this spot is exactly what I’ve been joyfully skipping towards for some years now, my hand in God’s hand, like an eager little girl going to see the funny monkeys at the zoo.

I was never a stupid girl. Foolish perhaps but not stupid. Even at a young age I knew monkeys were hugely entertaining. They were great fun, something that begged to be seen and experienced. Something so wonderful that once you’ve seen it, you simply must run to the bars to get a better look at it.

But if you get too close to the bars they throw monkey poop at you.

I could ask the obvious question. Is it worth it? But it’s a pointless question. I’m already at the bars and I am already enjoying the monkeys so much that I can’t and won’t step back. The view is just too marvelous. It’s just that I’ve only now remembered in my wonder and excitement that monkeys throw poop at you eventually if you stand too close to the bars. It’s just what monkeys do.

So I have to face whether or not monkey poop is worth it. I suppose that it is, really. Heck, I know that it is. That’s the correct answer and I know that’s the answer I’ll arrive at once I’ve gotten past my fear of monkey poop and considered the matter objectively. I just don’t want to consider the matter objectively. I never wanted to go see the monkeys, precisely because I didn’t want to ever consider this question and arrive at that answer.

But I asked God to teach me wisdom. I asked Him to make my life what He wanted it to be before I decided so long ago to mangle and mutilate it. I asked Him to make me what He wanted me to be. Healthy, happy and wise.

And apparently that requires large doses of monkey poop.