When I was little, whenever I thought about my grandparents one day passing away, I would cry like crazy.
Every day since growing up, I feel like I've been racing against death. I want to experience everything before I die.
After turning 30, more and more news of death began to show up around me.
My aunt was diagnosed with late-stage cancer. In the beginning, she found the most expensive doctors, used the best medicine. She said she didn't want to die.
As the cancer progressed, hospitals began refusing treatment. Gradually, she stopped saying she didn't want to die. She started saying she wanted to die — but couldn't.
Her son, my cousin, had left early to become a sailor — far away from home. He always hated his family.
But once my aunt got sick, he quit his job and came home. Every day, he cooked for her, listened to her yelling, to her painful groans.
In his own way, he was loving his mother, walking her through her final stretch.
I thought — watching your own mother get closer to death, day by day, must be unbearable.
Her body began to rot. I realized then — the rotting body of an old king in Game of Thrones? That was real.
Her hips, her legs — rotting into holes.
She took painkillers every day, and would wake up with her mouth full of blood.
And I thought — dying like this, must be so painful. I don't want that.
During the New Year, I went to see her. I hadn't wanted to — we were never close. Walking into a dying person's room always feels unlucky.
But my grandfather had made it clear I had to go, so I went.
She was the strongest-willed woman when she was young. She couldn't bear to lose anything, fought over every little thing, argued with everyone.
I still remember — I loved grapes as a kid. She'd buy grapes and hide them from me, afraid I'd eat them.
I never felt close to her — she was always like a vampire, draining my grandparents.
I walked in.
She was lying on the bed, her hair flattened from sleep — looked like a lot had fallen out.
She sat up slowly, like she felt awkward.
“Xi, you're here.”
“Yes, I came to see you.”
“You even brought me money.”
“Just a small gesture, Auntie.”
It was hard for me to accept seeing her like this. I could hardly believe it.
Someone with such a tough life force… ended up like this.
She said, “I'm sick, and I'm troubling your 80-year-old grandma to take care of me.”
She cried.
And I knew — she was truly ashamed.
I didn't know what to say.
It felt like anything I said would turn into pity.
But maybe she didn't want to be pitied.
I suddenly hugged her.
“Auntie, thank you for being part of this family.”
She cried again.
And I knew — that was our last hug.
And I meant it.
If I end up like her, I don't think I'd want people to come see me.
All the concern would feel like pity.
I wouldn't want the people who love me to see me at my most broken.
If I were dying, I'd want to be alone.
To sit with my life, to look back and know — it's ending.
I'd want to see the trees, the water, the light outside my window,
and quietly, peacefully, die alone.