Don’t Fear Death Make it Meaningful
I died in a car crash.
It’s not what you’d call beautiful. It was gory. It was messy. It was tragic. It wasn’t the way anyone would want to die, nor hope to be reunited with a lover, but it was what fate had in store for me.
Julia broke up with me months before I died. She was ill, and she said to me, “I’m dying, James. You deserve someone you can grow old with – have kids and grandchildren and share a lifetime with. I can’t be that person.”
I wanted to take care of her. I wanted to stay by her side until her last breath. If she was really going to die, I’d face it when the time comes. But, no.
“It’s for the best,” she said. “This is not a break-up, James. I’m lucky that I can say goodbye before I die.”
Julia didn’t want me to suffer, but all the same, I did. It was inevitable. She was my life.
I lost purpose when she broke connections with me. She hoped to lessen the impact of her death by prematurely ending our relationship, but it was as if I met my own death before she did hers.
And I did. But I’m getting ahead of my story.
“Consider me dead from now on.” She kissed and hugged me tightly, then walked out of my life.
Months passed. How was she? Was she suffering in the hospital? Was she still alive?
I was looking for crumbs – signs of life, or even death - in the web of social media. A post or story here and there, a tagged picture, a location check-in. I jumped at every black profile pic from a common friend, only to find that they’ve lost a distant relative.
“I’m sorry about your loss. I thought it was. . .”
“Julia.” They would nod in understanding.
“Have you any news from her?” I would ask, plead even.
They would look at me sympathetically, pause, and say with measured words, “She’s dead, James.”
It was a news blackout. Julia was good at hiding.
Then, it came – by that, I mean my death.
I was having a particularly difficult time. It should have been our tenth-year anniversary, and we would have been engaged. I planned the proposal a year prior. By saying this, I’m trying to justify why I died due to drunk driving. Need I say more?
Rain pelted my windshield while the alcohol blurred my senses.
There was a blaring horn - blinding lights - a step on the brake - then I was dead. I never knew when the blow actually came.
How did it feel to die?
You’d probably think it was painful, but honestly, I didn’t feel anything, even though my body was mangled and covered in blood. The alcohol must have numbed the physical pain, rather than the emotional pain I sought it out for, because the last thought on my mind was still – you guessed it – Julia.
I forgot about the little print at the back of my driver’s license. It says: Organ Donor.
I wasn’t humanitarian. For many years, I skimmed through the organ donation card, shrugged my shoulders, and left it unsigned. So, when Julia and I renewed our licenses together, I asked her, “Why are you signing that?”
“Because it’s gonna make life more meaningful!” she said, like it was the most natural thing to do.
“If they take out your organs when you’re already dead, isn’t that double jeopardy?”
“At least, you won’t die in vain! Sign yours, too!” Julia urged me.
Once again, I skimmed through the card, shrugged my shoulders - and, for the first time, I signed it, along with the anonymity agreement between donors and recipients.
How could it make my life - or rather, my death - more meaningful, as Julia said it? Obviously, she was unsuspecting of the fact that she was the meaning to my life. It couldn’t get more meaningful than that, but I signed it anyway, because Julia said so, and I loved her.
It gives me the chills to remember this and know how our fates have turned out. If I had known that my kidney would be transplanted to her, I would’ve signed the organ donation card with more ardor.
I could’ve cried - if it were possible to cry after death - when I saw Julia on the operating bed, cut open and ready to receive my kidney. Meanwhile, my life support was being cut off from the adjacent room.
I don’t know how it would feel for you, but I remember a sense of peace. I finally understood how organ donation could make my life more meaningful. My death gave her life. Julia, down to the end, was the meaning to my life.
“James,” she uttered when she awoke from the surgery.
Did she dream of me? I held her hand, not knowing if she could feel it. Nonetheless, I did what I would have done during her illness, had she not stopped me. I stayed by her side.
Julia sought me when she regained her health. My mom broke the news to her, and there, in our living room where we used to laugh, they cried.
“An angel saved my life, James. I know you are both in heaven. Please say thank you for me,” Julia whispered at my grave.
“I love you, Julia,” I replied, hoping she’d feel my presence in the cool wind. “I’m your angel now, and I’ll take care of you, as always.”
It took some years, but Julia eventually got married and raised a family.
“Should I sign this, Mom?” Her 18-year old son asked when given the organ donation card upon securing his first license.
Julia paused, staring at him with wonder.
“Mom? Are you okay?”
“I just remembered someone.” She smiled. The lines at the sides of her eyes indicated not just the years passed, but that those years were spent in joy.
“Sign it! It’s gonna make life more meaningful! But, be careful when you drive, Tommy!” Julia added strictly.
That day, which was incidentally my death anniversary, Julia visited my grave. She ran her hands over the inscription and gasped. “It’s the same date as my transplant! When you died, I lived! It’s as if you sacrificed your life for me, James!”
If she only knew how close we were at that time, and how close she was now to the truth. After almost thirty years, I thought Julia had forgotten about me. In that moment, I hope she remembers that I signed the organ donation card, and thus, I didn’t die in vain.
The organ donation agreement ensures anonymity between donor and recipient. Julia never knew - and would never know - that I was her donor, but it’s enough to know that my last, surviving body part was hers to keep, and that a part of me would always stay with her - literally and figuratively.
Yes, I died in a car crash. It was gory. It was messy. It was tragic. It wasn’t the way I wanted to die nor how I hoped to be with Julia again. But I died a beautiful death. That little print at the back of my driver’s license made all the difference.
I do not hope for you to die the way I did, so please, don’t drink and drive, but you never know what fate has in store for you.
So, I quote from Julia: “At least, you won’t die in vain! Sign yours, too!”
