Memento Mori

So, this was death. Not far from the nothingness I anticipated—no bliss of heaven, which I had no right to expect, no fires of hell which I, perhaps, deserved. But to be conscious of the nothingness? Who knew? All that was, was no more, except me. I was, in the nothingness. There were no others. There were no other things. Nothing lived in the nothingness, but me. But was I actually alive?

And yet, I remembered all that I used to be. Those I imagined I loved, those I hated, those I ignored, all that was evil, all the evil I had done and what little good—I was alone with my sins, and undeniably knowing with precise clarity the extent and magnitude of each one. Was this some kind of cosmic, eternal time-out?

It was dark. I could see nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing, taste nothing, feel nothing. But there was more missing than what could be sensed in those typical ways. And that was most disturbing. Whatever it was that I had never believed was there, nor wanted to believe was there, was missing.

I knew that which held all things together, the beauty that upheld the universe, created it, nurtured it, loved it—I knew it only now by its absence. And surely, it was gone.

Alone with my thoughts, alone in a way no living thing is ever alone, I was.

Perhaps some men know it while they walk the earth? Those who seek it? Such was the promise, “seek and ye shall find.” But I had only sought to deny that which was, and now was not. And here, whatever this place was, it was not, and its absence was palpable.

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here”—there was no such sign over some gate to pass through, as Dante suggested. But here, surely, there was no hope. The short few days, or years, of walking in the fallen garden, while there, I had taken for granted all that was important. Had I lived just long enough to know for certain what to miss in this place where nothing was all? So I might spend eternity remembering that which I should have loved? Was this the cruelty of life? Or was it justice?

Had I lived more boldly, would I have deserved the deepest fires of hell, if such a place existed, and been spared this infernal nothingness? But there were no such flames here. There might be some comfort in knowing I was punished for my crimes, having at least the company of my torturers, hearing the screams of my fellow damned. But, here, would I be alone for all eternity with only the memories of my sins, those things I had done and those things I had not done? I remembered them all. I saw the clear path of righteousness and every step I took from it. I saw every opportunity to believe in that thing that upheld the universe, that thing that grieved each time I stepped away from that path. But that thing was not here, and could never be here. Such, then, was how I imagined creation to be—without a creator. No God to worship. No God to please. No God to forgive. No God to redeem. If this were hell, it was the hell of my own imagining.

There was not even light here, though I imagined a confined space, not some endless nothingness—like a box I could not escape. I had no means to move. No arms, no legs, only this consciousness in this nothingness.

My wife, I remembered my wife, had I ever really loved her? I had turned her, turned her away from faith in things that could not be seen or sensed. Even what I thought of as kindnesses had turned to accusations in my conscience. I had led her to this hell of my creation, this existence without a creator. We sought passion and pleasure in the fleeting gifts of carnality and missed the eternal beauty all around us. The children we prevented, the child we ended before it could be born—they did not fit the lifestyle we chose, the lifestyle I chose. I did that to her.

Had I deliberately hurt anyone? Not many, though who does not grab for that which he can have for himself and deny to others? Had I taken more than my share? Had I passed by my neighbors in need?

And what of the insults I hurled at those who believed in that thing that was gone? Had I not instead owed Him my allegiance, my best, all that I was that had come from Him. Oh, how I had scoffed! Who could believe such nonsense? Had he really come as a man to show us how to live? And given his life for our salvation? Why had that all seemed so silly? Such nonsense? But wasn’t there something to that crucifix hanging in my mother’s house that I now sensed was gone? What was it?

My sister? Yes, she always believed. How I scoffed at her, but I could not shake her from it. Was she now praying for me, casting her kind thoughts into the impenetrable nothingness? She might be, there where there is hope. But here, there was no hope.

What a pedestrian sinner I had been! Denial of God, I suppose that is a big one. And leading others away from faith. Did I know these things were evil? How did I not know? Could I pretend I didn’t? But no murder, no adultery, well, once I was married. Fornication, sure. And lies. I lied all the time. Especially to myself. But all my sin was now done. There was no one left to lie to, and no use in lying to myself. Only the truth, the dark, the nothingness, and me. It only got worse with each memory. I had never been what I was meant to be, done what I was meant to do. I had missed it all, deliberately. My God, don’t let this be forever! Please, don’t leave me here alone with the truth!

I fought against remembering, struggling to be nothing in the nothingness. How could I bear to be the one thing in all the emptiness? Let me be nothing, as well! Annihilation would be a relief, a mercy.

Memento mori, an ancient admonition. Remember your death. Remember you are dust and to dust you will return—the words from the Good Friday liturgy when I was a boy. But was I dust? Did I remember my death? How had it come? The doctors, I remembered, the I.V. in my arm, an operation. Yes, they had said it was routine. Very little risk. And then, I was here. I had slipped into death, as some princess who had eaten a cursed apple, but here there would be no prince to wake me. There had been no sound once the beeping of the machines had faded to nothing and the chatter of the doctors and their assistants had slipped past hearing and the nothingness began—that nothingness without consciousness inspired by the anesthetics.

How I missed what had always been there, but I had never acknowledged. I recalled the days of my youth, the promise of salvation, the story of the man who was God who loved sinners, who gave his life for many. The bit of bread on my tongue, I knew now that it had been God, after all. All I had thought a fairy tale to scare children into being good, all I had imagined was a great scam, an inspiration for war and killing, a means of power and coercion. Once that which holds all things together, loves all things, even the evil ones who chose blindness, deafness, defiance—He who makes the rain fall on the good and the bad—once He is gone, and with him all hope, all that is left is regret and sorrow, all is gone but despair and eternity. 

A light, was it a light? The tiniest pinprick of light? But it grew brighter. A faint, long, constant beep. But it grew louder. Muffled voices grew louder.

“That’s it. He’s gone. Call it.”

“Time of death, 2:32 pm.”

The snap of a rubber glove. “Well, you can’t save them all.”

“Wait, doctor. I think I’ve got a pulse.”