I Hope I Die First
For my beloved husband Amit
Because I don’t want to figure out how to access our utility bills, or how to maintain our car, or how to get health insurance for our toddler Baba. And then Amit could finally enforce his childrearing stratagems that I undermine. Baba won’t even know I’m dead, aside from having fewer food options during more structured mealtime routines.
I’m not scared of dying, except that it might make Amit sad and create a headache for him. But I actually don’t think my death would be that big a deal, logistically, and he’s generally a happy person.
Amit would be fine if I died. He could marry someone who’d probably love Baba as much as I do, assuming they’re not evil. He might have difficulty finding his objects without me (he said that in every relationship, there’s the Finder, and there’s the Loser), but I’m sure he’d come up with some system. If I died, he’d have better sleep quality—he’s always raving about how much better he sleeps alone. Someone would need to take over my laundry and kitchen tasks, but there’d be fewer Amazon boxes to break down.
If Amit died, I’d immediately lose any semblance of sleep hygiene and never pass out before 4am, creating a chaotic spiral especially because our toddler wakes at 6am. I’d cry remembering how tyrannical Amit was about sleep, yet ignore everyone’s pleas to break the cycle. I’d move in with Amit’s parents so they could pick up the pieces and figure everything out. The move would supposedly be temporary but would last for years with no end in sight. If Amit’s dad died before Baba became a man, I’d hire an actor to be a father figure for our kid until technology could simulate Amit’s personality enough to be a robotic role model. If the robot wasn’t a good husband to me, I’d go crazy like Mike Tyson and spend all my money on white tigers. Even enslaved scammers would ghost me. I’d be so unmanageable in my grief that Amit’s parents would silently take care of my white tigers, on top of already taking care of Baba. I just remembered our dog—I have no idea what would happen to her. She’s very charming and adaptable—I’m sure she’d find another family in no time. I’d turn to a mixture of science and the occult and open his grave so I could hear transmissions from the beyond. I’d become a crackpot with theories on how to create an immortal Frankenstein version of my husband if only I got enough fresh body parts—isn’t it outrageous how hard They make it for everyday widows to get fresh body parts?
Maybe I could be persuaded to get it together for Baba’s sake. But first I’d have to be convinced that all the white tigers and robot father figures and corpses weren’t good for him—there’s no such thing as perfect parenting, and who are you to criticize a bereaved single mom?
Before Amit, I don’t think I ever let myself need anyone. Now that I’ve leaned on him, now that our lives are mingled, I can’t go back. My gnarled trunk has grown around him and you’d need to chop it all down if you wanted to take him away.
Amit, I love you and I’m very thankful you came with me to my blogging bootcamp even though you wanted to stay in Hawaii. Thank you for finding Baba childcare, for pestering me to go to bed, for feeding me, for planning for our future, for worrying about Baba’s schooling, for taking Baba so I could socialize or go to talks or get feedback, and many things I don’t appreciate enough yet. Whenever I get scared about you carrying things, or walking close to traffic, or being in cars, or overworking, or wearing un-washed new clothes, it’s because I love you very much, and I don’t want to give you a chance to die first.