Grief
Being and Nothingness: How I Overcame My Death Anxiety
I didn’t believe in much of anything, until my son died and changed everything.
Posted January 20, 2025 Reviewed by Monica Vilhauer Ph.D.
Nothing makes you question your own mortality more than the death of your child. That went double for me because, for as long as I could remember, I had been terrified of the big sleep. I spent countless nights catastrophizing about the end of my days, and whenever my train of thought arrived at the last-stop realization of not being here anymore—the moment I went from being to nothingness—it freaked me out something fierce. It came as a jolt of electricity that nearly stopped my heart.
This amplified death anxiety sprang from my simple certitude that once the light goes out, it’s check please, game over, good day sir! I’ve never been religious and didn’t believe in much of anything—until my older son Rob died and changed everything.
I had to believe that Rob’s spirit, soul, cosmic energy, or whatever you want to call it exists in some form somewhere. Not to believe was simply too painful. My own intense fear of death didn’t wholly dissipate until a few years later thanks to several profound psychedelic experiences, which is another story for another time.
I wouldn’t say that I’m necessarily looking forward to my own demise these days—although it will be good to reunite with Rob—but my apprehension about it has been turned down to a low boil. Honestly, I rarely worry about it, mainly since my girlfriend Janie, who is a Buddhist, is fond of reminding me that “Death is certain. It comes without warning. This body will be a corpse.” As you can tell, she’s a regular Jerry Seinfeld.
I never thought of not being here
When it comes to worrying about my death, my younger son Zach has become an excellent proxy. Every time we talk or FaceTime, the first question out of his mouth is “How are you feeling?” What he’s really saying is, Dad, please stay alive! I understand his concern. He’s already suffered one death out of order, and he’d prefer that my turn come many years down the line.
That, unsurprisingly, is also my preference. Even when Rob died, I never thought of not being here. When I was interviewing potential grief therapists, almost every one of them asked if I was suicidal. I thought it was an odd question at first, but then I realized that maybe they thought depression and mental illness ran in our family, because I hadn’t yet told them that Rob was adopted.
The devastation of losing a child to suicide could also tip someone over the edge and, of course, they didn’t know me from Adam. How could they have possibly known that I’m the polar opposite of suicidal? That I’m a cockroach who can survive a hundred nuclear winters!
On the flip side, I’ve heard many parents in various grief groups over the years comment about how they didn’t want to live anymore and they would gladly trade places with their lost child. Some folks said the only reason they are still alive was for the sake of their other kids.
Life looks different now
Others asserted that there was no reason for them to go on. What was the point? Their child was their life. It wasn’t that they had a death wish; it was more that they no longer had the will to live.
I know exactly how they felt and so do you. You’re so shattered and hopeless in the first weeks and months that you can barely think straight. You truly feel that you don’t want to be here anymore. You’re the walking dead, barely able to impersonate someone who gives a damn. All signs of life have been sucked out of you.
Those feelings, as you’ve learned all too well, are completely legit. Maybe a year down the road—maybe longer, depending on how much or how little work you’ve put in—a flicker of life returns, taking you by surprise. When this happens (and if it hasn’t happened yet, be patient because it will), see if you can hold it in your hands and gently nurture it. As the days go by and the flicker grows into a small flame, a kind of reanimation occurs along with it.
Life looks different to you now. You find yourself acutely aware of the ticking clock, and the moments begin to feel more cherished than ever before. There’s no time for petty nonsense. You’re now focused on what really matters. You start to look around for something bigger than yourself, and when you find what that is for you, you go all in and feel alive in a whole new way. You no longer question your own mortality because you’ve found the answer.
Yes, death is certain. It comes without warning. This body will be a corpse.
But not today.