Death is a part of everyone’s life. When you are young, it might be a family pet or an elderly relative. Your first experience with seeing someone die can happen at an early age.
As we get older, we see it everywhere: on the way to work, you get stuck behind a funeral procession. A news report about a fatal accident. A rock star has an overdose. A friend dies from cancer. A beloved cultural icon dies at an old age. Perhaps you even have a traumatic incident in your own life, with parents or siblings dying.
Which leads to the obvious question: What happens to all those people when they die? And what will happen to me when I die?
Obviously, any guess about it is pure speculation. While there might be hints, like a person reporting on a near-death experience, there is no direct evidence.
Some religions offer some sort of reward (or punishment) for belief (or disbelief). So what you think about death might be influenced by that: ascending to heaven, being reincarnated, and so on.
No doubt there is also some wish fulfillment. If a loved one dies, the grief can be overwhelming. It is a nice thought that when you die, you will be reunited once again.
Or if someone wrongs you, it is nice to think of some sort of cosmic justice being done in an afterlife even if there was no accountability here and now.
You’ve probably thought about this, one of the classic questions to ponder: what happens when we die? Do you have any thoughts?
Related questions: Why are people afraid of death? How do you remember someone who has died? What arrangements do you want when you die? Why are we sad when someone we don’t know dies?
I’m an atheist. I don’t believe in heaven or hell. I don’t believe in reincarnation. I don’t believe we have a soul.
So when we die, we are, quite plainly, dead.
There are, of course, the physical realities of death. Unless you’re cremated (which is my preference), the body remains and follows its natural course. That part is well understood, and I won’t linger on it.
What interests me more is that death seems to come in two forms.
The first is the moment of dying itself. It’s the one we recognize most readily: the gathered loved ones and the goodbyes. If you have a celebration of life, people tell stories. They remember you, your quirks, the ways you shaped their lives and, in small or large ways, the world around you.
But there is a second death, and it occurs more quietly.
Unless you’re widely known or your life has been extensively recorded, there comes a point when the last person who remembers you also dies. When that happens, the memory of you disappears. Your footprint fades completely.
That, to me, is the final death.