*As always, names are changed to protect people's privacy
When I was six or seven, I had a subscription to Sesame Street Magazine, a monthly publication based on the children's show that featured games, puzzles, and stories with Big Bird and friends. After reading and doing a few activities, I sometimes looked at the detachable parents' guide that came meshed between the middle pages of the magazine. Because I loved reading, even the parent-aimed insert was fair game for brain food. One article in the guide was about how parents can respond when their children ask difficult questions. I still remember two of the more amusing ones. One such tough question was, "Mommy, what's a dam? Is it like when Daddy says 'God damn?'" Another involved a child asking if her dead pet rabbit that the family had buried in the backyard went to heaven. At least I think it was a rabbit. My brain might be meshing the story with a scene from a Simpsons episode that came out about ten years later.
In any case, after reading the question about the deceased pet-- rabbit or otherwise-- I asked my mother a question of my own: "What do they mean about it going to heaven?" I asked, showing her the article. "Can't they just dig it up to see if it is still there?" Mom smiled and told me that some people believe in a soul. She explained what it meant, saying that they believe the soul leaves the body and goes to heaven. Because I wasn't raised in a particularly religious household, it was the first time I had ever heard about the concept, and I responded by telling my mother exactly what I thought: "That can't happen."
Ah, yes, kids say the darnedest things-- or the damnedest things, in this case. But at age 45, my view on the issue remains unchanged. I don't believe in a soul or an afterlife. Nor do I believe in God. I was raised in the Reform Jewish religion, and since the emphasis is more on culture and tradition than strong faith in God, I was given ample room to explore, question, and come to my own conclusions. The idea of surviving one's death through a soul that leaves the body just never made any sense to me. Most importantly, today I reject the idea based on what scientists now know about how the brain works and that injury to it can drastically alter someone's personality, or even render their personality non-existent. That is, all available evidence strongly indicates that consciousness is a byproduct of complex neurological activity, and that what makes you, you is your brain.
A few people have responded in abject disbelief as to how I can get up in the morning thinking that there is no afterlife. About twenty years ago, this topic somehow came up at the Brooklyn office where I worked at the time. "What about my mother?" one coworker asked me, his voice laced with distress, when I told him what I thought. "And if there's no afterlife, then what's the meaning of life?" Not sure how to balance tact and honesty in responding to him, I did the only thing that made sense in the moment: I resorted to humor. "I don't know," I said. "I'll let you know the answer to that when I'm dead." I don't recall how the rest of the conversation unfolded, but I would hope that this coworker would realize that my feelings-- and his-- are irrelevant. But a lot of people don't seem to understand that, and that's why belief in a soul and an afterlife persists, even among people who aren't religious-- including some of my fellow atheists.
We humans view death in a very curious way. We understand that it's inevitable, but it's also something we avoid talking honestly about, almost always sugarcoating it with euphemistic language in even some of the most horrific of circumstances. We will just as easily use the term "passed away" to gloss over the protracted and torturous demise of a 40-year-old victim of Lou Gehrig's Disease as we would for the peaceful death of a 100-year-old whose organs have quietly shut down. There is even a level of denial at some funerals, at which the body is injected with formaldehyde and made up to appear merely asleep, a practice that I have always found creepy. Additionally, we often bury bodies in expensive and ornate caskets, as if our loved one is going to reanimate and wake up and appreciate the beautiful lace trim that lines the inside.
I am not saying that people shouldn't have the types of funerals and memorials that are meaningful to them. I can see how a viewing might give people closure, but I wouldn't be caught dead at one. Rather, my larger point is that I prefer to discuss death plainly. This is something I have given a lot of thought to over the years, but especially in the past three months following the death of my longtime therapist, Oren. I realize that thinking so deeply about this issue is beyond scientific fascination: it has been part of my grieving process and that I approach grief, in some ways, differently than most people. I hate not having closure, and having only limited information about how Oren died wasn't something I could easily accept. I've lost count of how many Google searches I ran to try to paint a coherent picture of what brought his life to an abrupt end. But I was only left with more questions that will probably never be answered. Ultimately, what I understand is that a process in Oren's body failed and as a result so did all of the other biological processes necessary to keep him alive-- because that is exactly what death is.
I found myself thinking about the worst part of the process-- the tragedy that is brain death. The human brain spends decades accumulating knowledge, understanding, and insight. It is shaped by its genetic predispositions that interact with the environment to form a unique personality. And yet, within mere minutes of oxygen depravation, that system-- which many people interpret as a soul-- is irreversibly damaged and ultimately destroyed. As decomposition progresses, that bit of precious biological hardware liquifies to a yogurt-like consistency in a matter of days. To say that my blood runs cold just thinking about that what made Oren, Oren is now in this state is an understatement.
I suppose my form of grieving and the denial that some people have about the finality of death are two sides of the same coin. The idea of simply no longer existing is too much for us to wrap our heads around, not just philosophically but also literally: how does it feel to not be conscious at all, not even in the minimally-conscious state under general anesthesia? It's a nonsense question with no answer. And in the absence of scientific explanation combined with grief, most human societies throughout history have postulated the idea of a soul or something similar. Many people still adhere to the idea to provide a comforting answer to an impossible question and to ease their grief, even while possibly harboring doubts that they don't want to face. I, on the other hand, search for answers to try to get a better understanding of the process of death and its aftermath. I don't think this has anything to do with autism, except perhaps in the sense that I'm more willing to disregard taboo and openly admit to it.
That's not to say I don't also grieve in ways that are typical. Like many people after losing someone they care about, I cried a lot after Oren died. I fought back tears nearly every day for weeks, and had four intense crying episodes in the first month alone. I had moments where I felt a little guilt about certain interactions that I could have handled differently, even though I know Oren, having been my therapist, would not have dwelled on them. After a few days, I came to realize that I had grown to love him, and grappled with understanding why this reality never dawned on me while he was alive. I even use language that the casual observer might misread as religious: recently, I said to someone that while I would never wish death upon anyone, it is just awful that a kind, caring soul like Oren had to die while people who are destroying the country and the planet have already outlived him.* But here I was being poetic, not professing a supernatural belief.
Returning to the incredulity others have expressed as to how I am okay with the finality of death, I should clarify that I am not. But, as I said earlier, my feelings are beside the point. I care about what's true, and all of the available evidence points to death being the literal end of one's existence. Importantly, I see this reality as a call to action, a reminder of the importance of appreciating the one life we know we have and to help make the world a better place.
In a bit of irony that hasn't escaped me, I end with a quote from the Bible: "Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring forth."
*Do you even need to ask who I'm talking about?
