As a death doula, I’ve been asked, “isn’t this stuff depressing?” People have also wondered if being close to death has altered my relationship to my own mortality.

Other questions soon follow: are death doulas and grief workers more “morbid” than people who don’t work in these tender spaces? Are they more anxiety-riddled?

Maybe. I can say I feel a heightened sense of awareness about mortality (mine and my loved ones’) that maybe other folks don’t feel. It’s almost a tangible presence.

And sometimes, it really can be a lot to manage. You’ve got all of life’s regular fears, uncertainties, and anxieties. Then add on top of that the close proximity to loss and grief as a death worker; it makes quite a potent cocktail for someone already prone to overthinking. *waves hello*

Anxious fears and what if’s

Some days, I feel the weight of this presence more than others. An unexpected, suffocating wave of fear drags me under, into an ocean of anxiety. When my partner doesn’t text me after a long period of separation, I don’t wonder, “is he cheating on me? Is he with another woman right now?” (This, in spite of being cheated on by my ex) I wonder, “is he fucking dead? Did he get in a crash on the way home? Do his coworkers know to call me if he was injured on the jobsite”?

I feel the sting of missing my family who all live across the country. Quickly, pangs of urgency follow. There’s almost a compulsion to visit them as often as I can, sometimes at the detriment of my (hungry) bank account; flights aren’t cheap. I feel compelled to see them not just because I miss them (which is normal) but because I never know when a visit might be the last (which might be less normal). Time marches on and none of us are getting any younger.

When my phone lights up just as I’m going to sleep, my eyes pop from their half-open, half-asleep state as I roll over and urgently check the screen…but not because I’m looking for my next Instagram notification. I’m checking to make sure it’s not a text. Who would text me so late at night if it weren’t an emergency, I wonder. What if it’s my family, begging me to please call because something awful has happened?

After all, this is the reality for many of the grieving people I have worked with and learned of. Who’s to say that reality won’t be mine as well?

Why not me?

When tragedy strikes, people often ask, “Why me?” Sometimes, the awful, cruel answer is, “why not you?” Conversely, when my life is chugging along pretty well, I wonder, “why is it so good? Why is my life so good when other people I know have it so bad, when they’re suffering so? Why do I still have most of my loved ones, when they don’t? Why them, and why not me? I’m not immune to death and loss.” I wonder when my “turn” will come due.

When I am inundated by thoughts like these - and it happens more than I’d like to admit - I worry I’m not cut out for this work. I worry that my relationship with death and mortality has tipped too far into the realm of anxious rumination, rather than its usual, beautiful balance of “life is fragile; life is gift; enjoy it.”

None of this is to say I haven’t experienced suffering and loss. I have. I attended many, many more funerals than weddings. I have lost people. I have grieved. I suppose a lot of it was “frontloaded,” losses and grief piled one on top of the other in my teenage years and early 20’s - all while I was struggling to hold it together during school.

“Do you ever wonder if your husband will die?” and other perfectly normal conversations

Sometimes, when my partner comes home and starts yammering about his work day, I watch him in silence, starstruck. His simple movements as he unloads the dishwasher and plates some leftovers suddenly become a holy thing, something beautiful and sacred. I think, “I’m so fucking lucky to have this, to have him.” I probably have a daffy smile on my face as I try to pull myself back into the things he’s actually telling me: crazy coworker stories, AC/DC current, electrical conduit.

I reached out to a fellow death doula friend and presented an abridged version of my fears to her. “Do you ever look at your husband and almost cry sometimes, knowing he could die any day?”

“All the time,” was her breezy reply. “Sometimes I smile at him and say, “I’m gonna miss you so much when you die.”

Yes, these are the conversations death workers have…they’re perfectly normal to us as we each come to terms with death care in our own time and in our own ways.

The asking price of admission

My definition (read: MY definition, aka, my opinion) of a disorder or a problem, has always been “when it impairs my existence to where I can’t function without significant distress.” My worries that seem to arise as a direct result of death care aren’t at that level. If they ever become that problematic, I know I have a supportive community of fellow death and grief workers (mentors and peers) to whom I can bring these worries.

In the meantime, I have come to accept that perhaps these worries are simply the asking price of admission into the sacred field of death care: an initiation, maybe. I don’t know if one can be human, can do this delicate work, and somehow remain FULLY unaffected. It’s because I’m human that these fears creep into the fringes.

I’m convinced I’ll never fully shake my “death worries.” I think it’s the flipside of the priceless and beautiful knowing I have received from death care: that life is precious, life is tenuous. Our days are numbered. None of them are guaranteed.

I can allow those thoughts to terrify me into oblivion, to paralyze me with anxiety - and as you have read, sometimes they do. Or, more often, I can choose to allow them to transform me into someone who loves deeply, who doesn’t leave things unsaid.

In one hand, I can acknowledge the very real pain and devastation that death brings. And in the other, I can hold deep, profound gratitude for this little life of mine.

What an incredible gift.

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I am a death doula who believes in the power of sharing our stories. I help people explore their relationship with death, which inevitably includes exploring their relationship with life. I hold and honor the stories of the dead through writing unique obituaries, crafting entire memoirs, and planning bespoke funeral services. Learn more about my work and how I can help you at numbered-days.com.