Ben Franklin jested that most people died at the age of 25 even though their obituaries read 75. What constitutes death? It is a question worth considering. Is it where the soul leaves the body and the spirit rests in the next dimension?
There are two types of existentialists, generally speaking. There is the atheist and the theist. Of course there are many different subsets. But, basically, existentialism is how one gets along and makes sense of the world around him either before himself "alone" in the universe and in this world with other humans, or before God. Both find a systematic method fopr deriving moral and ontological truths. The theistic existentialist would say that humans are made in the image of God. All existence therefore is subject to the interaction upon that relationship. "Existence precedes essence" as D. Anthony Storm put it. What sets a human apart from a bear, is that he is made in the image of God, while the bear, though a masterfully created being is not in the likeness and image of God. Because of this likeness, his essence cannot change. And, because his existence precedes his essence, he cannot lose it--unless he ceases to exist--and in theistic-existencial terms, he cannot ever cease to exist--only change from one dimension to the next.
And so, on to the subject of death. It is of great relevance to me, not because I know of my certain death. Indeed, I might surprise us all and outlive a great many people. But, rather, my illness makes me keenly aware of life's frailty and my dispensibility. Last night, while in bed beginning to sleep, I gasped. Thinking maybe I was just sorely tired, I rested again. A second time it happened. So, I took my vitals (as they are often abnormal). My heart rate was 42 and my chest was so heavy; I am young and can tolerate a great deal more than this--but it felt very uncomfortable--especially for being so tired.
I sat up to catch a better breath, but it didn't help. No position could change how fast or slow my heart went. Only the week before, I was on the verge of passing out for many days straight. Even after 4 IVs, my blood pressure could not rise to normal limits. While driving home from Christmas with family, I began passing out in the car--about 3 hours from any hospital. God spared me from going unconscious and we managed to get back home and have the care of a wonderful physician here in town. Still, it left me shaken and very aware of life's fragility.
Many people think that it would be best to die in their sleep. I, however, disagree. I think of all the people I wish to see in the morning--and to all the people I would not be able to say goodbye if I were to die in my sleep. I don't wish to go too soon.
My kids. I would miss them, and my dearest husband the most. How does one live without regret when everyday is faced with reluctant acceptance of the things which she cannot change? I wish I played with my kids almost all of my waking time. But, like most mothers, my time is spent caring for them and the things that pertain to living rather than themselves--their own little minds. Of course I hold them, play games with them occasionally, cook and clean (what seems like constantly), tend to their attitudes and inquiries. But, I often lack physical strength or the mental stamina to play extensively with them. How can I offer them a life of memories apart from illness? That they would remember me not only as a caring mother, but as a mother that was most often with them in their little worlds? And so, at the wee hours of the night, when I am ill and wondering how the next day will come about--hoping that it will--I worry about leaving them too soon. Does that mean that I am not really living right now? Ontologically speaking, the nature of being is more than doing. But, this is precisely the diliemma in which I fall. I find myself insipidly doing rather than being. How does one exist apart from doing? Ergo I fear my essence lost--even though I know that philosophically this cannot happen.