Death's fearful curse: losing this life's dear pleasures.

Are you afraid to die?" my newly bereaved son asked. "If you believe we're all going to heaven, aren't you eager to get there? So why forbid suicide to those people who don't want to live?"

Oh, oh, I thought. Here's another instance where the personal and the political meet. My general opposition to suicide must start at home.

"Good question," I reply. "When I'm out giving talks against assisted suicide and euthanasia I try to be honest about my own feelings about death. It's crucial to recognize how important emotions are when considering end-of-life decisions."

So, yes, I admit it, I am afraid of dying. Even though I do not doubt the good news that Christ has won for us the gift of eternal life, dying scares me. I am mortally afraid of facing death because I fear that at the last moment I might be overwhelmed by panic and anxiety. And then I might doubt and despair.

Thirty-five years ago I had a few panic attacks after losing my infant son to sudden infant death syndrome. I've never forgotten the intense dread and horror of the feeling that I was dissolving into nothingness and would explode and be extinguished.

If I should experience such a fear when facing death, I doubt that my faith could stand against the terror. Saints such as Therese may have experienced blackness and loss of faith at the approach of death, and who knows what Jesus felt as he sweat blood on the night he was betrayed. In the Iliad, Homer repeatedly sings of "courage-shattering death," and I can imagine how one's courage might fail before the great transition imposed by the grim reaper.

On a lighter note, I must admit that I have always hated transitions, especially those totally out of my control, such as the second stage of childbirth, airplane takeoffs, or becoming the anesthetized patient upon the operating table. My own private metaphor for living and dying is to envision our existence here as something like that of the fetus in the womb, and when we die we are born into the new creation. Unfortunately, I'm sure I was the kind of fetus who didn't want to risk the trip. As an adult but fairly infantile Christian, I could never say with Saint Paul that I long "to depart and be with Christ" (Phil. 1:23).

Part of my problem has to do with capitulating to inertia, that motherlode of sin, but also with the fact I am much too content and happy with my family, work, friends, and this life's dear pleasures: hot baths, the New York Times, good novels. Only occasionally do the sorrows and evils of the world intrude on my life strongly enough to produce a pang of loathing for this world, along with a strong desire to escape this life. Enough already. Maranatha.

Of course, if I have to face impairment and chronic illness in old age, death may not seem so horrible. As a coward I already dread the pain, suffering, and irritating tedium of dying. To my way of thinking there can be no natural death. Death is always an affront, that effect of the Fall that Saint Augustine says will always mar the happiness of human beings. We are made for eternal blessedness.

I am left cold by those enthusiasts for nature's cycles who welcome the autumn leaf's dying fall as part of the death that replenishes the earth. Remember, it was pagan devotees of nature's endlessly recurring cycles of life and death who sacrificed virgins to the gods of the mountain. Their descendants still remain half in love with easeful death and have faith in glowing accounts of near-death experiences.

No, death is better seen by Christians as a fearful curse from whose jaws Christ has saved us. Death may have lost its sting but it is still horrible.

So how does this argument over the proper emotions associated with dying impinge on our larger cultural and ethical debates about end-of-life decisions? In plenty of ways, I'd say.

Will not fear of death and dying (acknowledged or unacknowledged) make many people clutch too long to the last gasp of physiological life - no matter what price it may entail in technological interventions, financial resources, or increased suffering?

On the other hand, some despairing people may so desperately wish to escape from suffering and the dying process that they will attempt suicide or get others to help them do so. To preempt passivity and overcome the anxiety of dependence, many defend themselves by actively taking control of events. Violent acts can be engendered from one's rebellion against dependency. I will not serve, cry Lucifer and Stephen Daedalus.

Then there are the emotional responses of those who will care for the dying. Many will long for escape because they dread to watch their loved ones die. Physicians, friends, and families will have strong positive and negative emotional reactions when they must support the dying.

Much more needs to be said on this topic, but here we can only affirm that we do well to call to mind the complexity of emotional responses when we hear simple-minded talk from policy makers about "voluntary" and "rational" decisions.

Back on the personal front, individuals can continue the tradition of praying for a good death. As an anxious soul, I long to be spared panic; I desire the grace of courage in order to bear whatever has to be borne. In fact, it's never too early to start practising how to die well. No, I don't recommend that you sleep in your coffin as Sarah Bernhardt did. But I do repeat as my mantra that "perfect love casts out fear." And to make the truth of God's love for us more real, I call up a vision of mother and child; God is the mother and I am the babe in arms. (Thank you, Dame Julian; thank you, Therese.) When assaulted by attacks of anxiety and fearful distress, I try to imagine myself supported, enfolded, held safe, soothed, and comforted by the ever loving arms. Yes, everything's going to be all right; all will be well.

Happily, we Catholics have one other bridge over troubled water when confronting the awful prospect of our dying; we can bank on the belief that a holy and good mother, you-know-who, will pray for us, now and at the hour of our death.