A Preoccupation with Death

So, it's been a while since I have posted anything on here. I've been extremely busy with my writing elsewhere, family visiting, and an unexpected job interview. That's right: in just a few weeks, I may be working full-time. Although that means shopping for a daycare center for my son, I'm really excited.

Unfortunately, I've been thinking often about death--my death, my husband's, and my son's. I still worry sometimes that my son will go to sleep and never wake up. I'm scared that an officer will show up at my door one day to say that my husband was involved in an accident and he's not coming home. And then I think that I'll discover I'm chronically ill and pass away at a young age. These scenarios play in my head at a rather disturbing rate sometimes.

Could it be I'm really afraid of death? I don't normally think I am. Sometimes I think death would be welcome: no worries, no tragedies, just peace. I'd no longer care about the world and its troubles. I wouldn't concern myself with my son growing up in a toxic, financially unstable world. My brain would finally be switched off. Finally.

But I know I don't want that yet, tempting as it is sometimes. I believe I have more to do--that my role to play in this world isn't finished. If anything, I'd like to make this world a better place for my son, if that is possible. Despite my morbid preoccupation, I have decided to let events run their course and not worry anymore. Whatever comes, I hope I will be prepared.