I used to think about death once a week. When hearing about a car crash or a stabbing in my neighborhood, I’d imagine that it could have been me; then I’d promptly dismiss the thought. Now that I’ve been diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer, though, the frequency of such thoughts has skyrocketed. In Portugal, whenever a friend sings me our traditional Happy Birthday song and reaches the part, “May you live for many years,” I think, Probably not that many. When a ticket salesperson says, “See you again at next year’s festival!” I mumble, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Stage IV means the cancer cells grew tired of being confined to the organ where they were born (in my case: the right lung). They’ve now decided to spread their wings and travel abroad to more exotic places like my brain. I can relate. I’d hate to be stuck in my hometown my entire life, passing by the same tissues every day on my way to work. The brain is exciting. It’s like the New Zealand of the body. So, I understand why cancer cells want to move there. Unfortunately, in my case, this means it’s impossible to get rid of the little fuckers.

I have ALK-positive lung cancer. According to a recent study, the median overall survival of patients with my type of cancer is about seven years from a stage IV diagnosis. Seven years doesn’t sound so bad after you’ve heard the words “incurable cancer” coming from your doctor’s mouth. But it’s far from ideal when you’re thirty-one. Meanwhile, my resting-frown-face grandfather, who never had a sip of green tea or set foot on a yoga mat, is currently ninety-six years old—the bastard.

In theory, I always understood I would die one day. In practice, though, I spent most of my life tricking my brain into believing I’d live forever. I think most of us do. But after my diagnosis, I can’t fool my brain anymore. When waiting to fall asleep at night, biking to work, or whenever I have a second alone with my thoughts, death creeps in. I imagine closing my eyes for the last time in my life, not knowing it’s the end. I contemplate all the precious memories that I so carefully gathered over the years being wiped out. Puff. As if I’d never existed. I picture this body I’ve come to adore devoured by wiggling maggots. I envision living in an inescapable black void for eternity.

I refuse to spend the time I have left on Earth carrying this crippling fear everywhere I go. I also won’t continue pretending I’ll live forever. I think there’s a better alternative: to be okay with death. That doesn’t mean I want to die. It means I don’t want it to make my heart race as if I’m facing a lion in the jungle. I need to take the hazy monster in my head, lay it out in front of me, rationalize it, and break it apart until it’s as real and boring as a potato.

Talking about my impending demise with those closest to me isn’t an option. My family’s approach when somebody dies is to NOT talk about it. Too sad. What’s the point? My mother died when I was twelve, and I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral. After I got the news, we rarely spoke about her again. I thought maybe it was because I was too young, but I saw the same behavior when my father died twenty years later. The family avoided mentioning his name in the days that followed, lest they break some unspoken rule. And now, with my cancer diagnosis, it’s even worse because I’m still alive. And nobody wants to picture me dead. I could see the shiver going down my partner’s back when he saw a little yellow book titled When I Die on my nightstand. My sister changes the subject every time I try to discuss my will. I want to make it easier on her, but she’d rather be buried in paperwork after my death than talk about it while I’m alive.

Over the last two centuries, the world’s average life expectancy has more than doubled. The longer we live, the more we seem to fear being reminded of our mortality. The one thing we all have in common has become the biggest modern-day taboo.

As a last-ditch effort, I decided to whine to a therapist about my conundrum.

“I heard about a fellow psychologist who is organizing something called a Death Café,” she said. My eyes lit up. “It’s a get-together where people talk about death.”

She shared the link to the Facebook event page. It was illustrated with the Grim Reaper drinking tea with its skeletal pinky sticking up in the air.

Precisely what I need, I thought.

*

Death Cafés have been popping up all over the world since 2011. They’re gatherings where the dying and the non-dying alike openly discuss topics around death. They can be held by anyone, as long as they follow certain guidelines. The idea originated with the Swiss sociologist and anthropologist Bernard Crettaz, who organized the decadent-sounding “café mortel.” The concept was then developed into the Death Café movement by British web developer Jon Underwood and psychotherapist Sue Barsky Reid. (Fun fact: Jon also created Funeral Advisor, a type of Tripadvisor for the funeral industry.)

On a breezy, full-moon evening, after two weeks of eager anticipation, I found myself pressing the Zoom meeting link to join my first Death Café. Four other heads popped up on my screen. We were all from different European countries and all first timers at this kind of event, except for the therapist hosting the meeting and guiding the discussion.

“Please grab some tea and cake from your kitchen,” the therapist said. “This is supposed to be fancy.”

I’d done my research, so I already knew the protocol. I lowered my camera so the others could see my package of chocolate chip cookies and Star Wars tea mug. I was ready.

“We’re here to talk about death—in case that wasn’t clear yet,” he said with a smirk. “This is a discussion group, not therapy. You won’t find answers here, but openness and understanding. So please respect everyone’s points of view and beliefs, no matter how ridiculous you think they are.”

He went on to name the most unusual burial options he’d learned about in past meetings. There’d been someone who wanted a sky burial, i.e., having their dead body pecked at by vultures. Another person wished to be buried as a tree pod and have their remains grow into an oak.

“I, too, want to be turned into a tree pod,” said a long-haired lady in a poncho. “I think it’s magical. And eco-friendly, of course.”

Becoming a tree after you die didn’t sound magical to me. It sounded like the premise of a horror movie. But hey, to each their own.

Tree Pod Lady finished introducing herself and gave the floor to her friend who had dragged her there. He was a fast-talking, middle-aged man who told us about his mother’s death. Then he moved on to talk about his real passion: energy fields.

“We are all just energy fields,” he said over and over again. “Our body is made of energy. Our soul is made of energy. There’s no reason to fear death because, after our bodies die, we will continue living forever as energy fields.”

At this point, I got concerned. These first two characters sounded way too hippy-dippy for my taste. I’m an atheist, a devout follower of the scientific method. I can understand the attraction to the esoteric: it offers simple answers to the fundamental questions of life. Plus, it’s fun to imagine what fantastical entities could be floating beyond our grasp. However, it rubs me the wrong way when people mix these ideas with science terms. As if saying energy fields and cosmic forces makes it scientifically accurate. I desperately wanted to lean toward my screen and argue back, but, remembering the words of the therapist, I breathed, nodded, and smiled at Energy Guy. I was sure we would agree on nothing.

The next participant seemed a little younger than me, in her twenties, and spoke in a soft, trembling voice. She apologetically described herself as a “death virgin,” having never lost a loved
one. Yet, she’d spent countless sleepless nights worrying about dying. My eyes flickered in recognition.

While listening to the others, it dawned on me that I was the most experienced death-wise. I’d morbidly hoped to find some people with equally unlucky lives in this group. It would have made it less awkward.

“My mother died when I was a teenager,” I said when it was my turn. Tree Pod Lady’s eyes widened.

I like to drop the bombs right at the beginning, to get it over with. I kept a casual tone, striving to find the perfect balance between letting them know I was okay with this and not sounding like a sociopath.

“Then, last year, my father died,” I continued. I could see the cogs in their brains turning, working out how old I was and how old my father would have been, to allocate the appropriate degree of sadness.

“And that same week,” I took a deep breath to calm my nerves before the big reveal. I had to say it. After all, it was my reason to be there. “I was diagnosed with advanced-stage, incurable lung cancer.”

I checked the others’ faces. They looked as if I’d punched them. This is why I don’t usually come out of the cancer closet to people I just met. To signal I was fine, I did what I always do: I gave them a little whatcha-gonna-do smile. In the uncomfortable silence that followed, I wished I could bury my head under the ground.

Energy Guy asked to speak. He started detailing the many dead bodies he’d seen throughout his life, from a neighbor whose throat had been slashed to the torn body parts of a suicide-by-train. I was simultaneously creeped out and touched by his attempt to make me feel less alone in my death count.

“The scariest part of dying is that I won’t get to see the future of the world,” Death Virgin stated. I was glad to move away from the topic of gruesome killings. “If someone would tell me the highlights of what will happen, I’d happily die.”

“What terrifies me the most is that I won’t leave my mark behind,” I confessed. This was something I’d been struggling with ever since my diagnosis. “Scientists get equations and theories named after them, politicians put their stamp on laws and streets, but I’m just an average person. In a hundred years, nobody will remember me.”

“This question of legacy has come up at eighty percent of the Death Cafés I’ve organized,” the therapist said. He liked to give us statistics like this, comparing us to his previous groups. Each time I would internally punch myself for my lack of originality. “What does the rest of the group think?”

“There’s an African proverb that says, ‘When an old man dies, a library burns to the ground,’” Tree Pod Lady pitched in. “My stories are the closest thing to me I can leave behind. I want to make copies of my books before they burn.”

This made sense to me. I take comfort in imagining that, after I die, my partner will casually mention stories from my life to his future romantic partners. Even if it’s the one about me having diarrhea for three days after eating spoiled ham (I refuse to throw away anything I paid for).

“It seems silly that I expect to be remembered,” I said, half laughing. “That I think it’s my right. Me, in particular, out of the billions of people who have existed throughout history.”

“You’re never truly forgotten,” Energy Guy said. “Your name will be in someone’s family tree.”

It was nice of him to try to help once more. However, I didn’t feel comforted by the thought of a mention on a genealogy website, waiting patiently to be found by some future distant relative.

“Would you want to know the date of your death?” the therapist asked when the group’s silence had gone on for a second too long. “Would it matter if you had one year or fifty years to live?”

Ah, finally, a question where I could show off my cancer-given insights. Tree Pod Lady and Death Virgin were quick to say they’d rather not know, as the knowledge would overwhelm them with anxiety.

“I used to think like that too,” I said. “But now that I have an estimated few years left to live, I think that might be the perfect amount of time to know in advance. It’s long enough to do a lot of what I always wanted to do but kept postponing, and short enough that I never stop being grateful for every breath I take. If I could have a psychic or a computer simulation give me the date, I’d take that over cancer.”

I knew wanting to know your expiry date was an unconventional opinion, so I waited for the rebuttal.

“I agree,” Energy Guy said, to my surprise. “It’s like having a work deadline, which pushes you to get things done. If you think you have all the time in the world, you’ll sit on the couch and procrastinate all day.”

The conversation continued flowing until our time was up.

“How is your energy level?” asked the therapist before ending the meeting.

I waited for Energy Guy to take the opportunity to mention energy flows again, but he didn’t take it. One by one, we all said we felt great. We had fun at a freaking Death Café.

I was amazed at the profound insights I got from everyone. I left the meeting with a newfound respect for them, even if some of their beliefs will continue to baffle me. We were united in our longing to talk about death. And together, we were liberated from the shackles of taboo.

*

I confess that death still scares the shit out of me. I feel it whenever my lungs act up or I’m waiting to hear my latest scan results. But it’s getting easier to think about it. It’s less of a hazy monster and more of a potato.

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