If I didn't believe in an afterlife, there wouldn't be many things worse than death. It would mean the end of everything. No more chances to exist in any form. No more me.
But since I do believe that something truly good awaits me, yes, there are things that would be worse than death. Not that I'm in any hurry!
One thing that would be unbearable would be living in constant pain, yet not being able to move a muscle. Just imagine, wanting to do something - anything.
You wouldn't be able to speak, get online, even read a book. Meals would be a distant memory. You can't even open your eyes to see the light of day.
And yet you are fully aware, memory and personality intact. People are talking about you as if you aren't there. They're saying that you will most likely have a long life ahead of you.
But they're also saying that you will be the way that you are for the rest of your days. There's no treatment, and research indicated that no breakthroughs were expected.
Maybe if I really thought of death as the end I would want to hold on, even then. I don't know. But I do expect if it went on long enough, existing in that state, I'd be praying for a release.
Here's another situation where I'm not sure if I could continue without my faith:
"I'm sorry, there's no cure. You will have good days, at least at first. But over time they'll be fewer and fewer," said the doctor.
"What will it be like in the end?" I ask, my stomach clenching.
"You will become confused, weak, and there will also be muscular pain. You'll have trouble sleeping, and might not have an appetite," he replied grimly.
"Well that's not too bad. It won't kill me?" I asked, relaxing a little.
"No, it won't affect your lifespan. But it will significantly decrease your quality of life," said the doctor.
"What are the treatments?" I ask, hoping that the medication won't have too many side effects.
"There are none. We simply don't understand how this disease works because it's so rare," he replied.
"I understand. Is there any chance of a breakthrough in this area, within my lifetime?" I asked.
"Unfortunately not - again, your condition is very rare. We have barely seen enough cases to reliably predict the progression," he replied.
"Then maybe it won't be as severe? I might be mostly ok?" I suggested, not wanting to believe that within five years I would basically be acting worse than a ninety year old.
"That's extremely unlikely. Unfortunately the few documented cases have all become progressively worse, until eventually they had to have round the clock care. None of them were able to continue to function," he replied soberly.
"Thank you for being honest, Doctor," I said, and shook his hand before walking out to live my life.
A year later:
"I can't find my keys. And where is that pair of socks?" I thought, walking around aimlessly. A short time later, I found both.
"But now I'm too tired to go out," I mourned, sinking into my favorite spot on the couch. I was sitting there thinking that I would use the time to think of some good content for Hive, but instead I mindlessly watched three hours of reruns on TV.
Three years later:
"I haven't been out in weeks. And I rarely even get anything done around here," I thought, disgusted with myself. I spent a lot of time online, with my Hive family. But I had trouble focusing, and would often miss comments and conversations.
Honestly, missing a few things was nothing new, but now I was taking it to a whole new level. Thankfully everyone understood after I told them what was going on. I don't know what I would have done without their support!
I was still posting sometimes, but it was a struggle. I found myself losing the plot easily, and having to spend a lot more time on editing.
A year later:
"Where am I?" I wondered as I woke up. My back was killing me, the bed was wet, and I couldn't move to get away from it. It was still dark outside.
I laid there for hours, not sure if I would ever get out of that mess. I finally succeeded in rolling over, but that didn't help, I was already soaked.
Cold, wet, and miserable, I went back to sleep.
"Good morning, 
"Oh right... I'm in a nursing home. I could have pushed a button, and had a dry bed," I thought sourly.
"Now if I could just remember what I enjoy doing, maybe I wouldn't be so bored... I can't move, but there must be something," I thought desperately, as the nurse put me back to bed, and walked out.
Cover image made in Canva using their gallery