As I’ve written before, I’m a Deathling, a member of the Order of the Good Death, and what’s called “death positive.” It’s not a phrase I’m wild about, but calling myself a “Deathling” makes even less sense to people, “into death” is even less helpful or accurate.
In the last couple months, I’ve found myself traveling with death and grief, from the loss of a kindred spirit I never knew to the death of my father after decades of illness. It’s forced me to sit closely with what this movement to me in a way that I hadn’t when my mother died (the movement started just around the time she died, so it was a thing I encountered after my initial grief).
For the first 8.5 years of our marriage, my husband spent his life as some combination of grad student/grad teacher/dissertation writer or adjunct professor. He worked nearly constantly—writing his dissertation, doing course prep, grading, writing articles, applying for jobs, and driving. We lived on the border of Washington, DC, with its high cost of living, to be close to his school. Fortunately, I found work along the nearest metro line and eventually began my own graduate program.