by Rachel Stewart

I find myself contemplating death a great deal of late. Not other people’s. Mine. And the strange thing is, I’ve discovered I’m less stressed than ever.

No, I cannot report that an impending fatal illness – that I know of – is about to wipe me off the face of the earth. I’m hale and hearty, and this week my cheeks have good colour. But, hey, we all know that particular state of affairs can turn on a dime.

It’s more when I stop the internal chatter and clear my head for a moment that my mind goes there of its own volition. I considered it weird at first. Like, was I inviting the Grim Reaper in, or having a vision of the very near future? Now, I look forward to these moments every day.

Why? Because thinking about my death – or, at least, just not being here as opposed to the dying part – I find my troubles tend to fade into the night. Everything finds its rightful place, and the lightness comes back.

Since youth, I’ve been aware that death is sitting on my shoulder every minute of every day. It’s part of possessing a rural aesthetic; animals die, and you’re up close and personal with that, and likely more than is needed. But it does give you an innate appreciation of the cycle of life, and how it all works.

So, when in 2017 I discovered a new phone app that sends you five simple daily texts reminding you that you’re going to die, I thought, “that’s a bloody good idea” and proceeded to sign up. It’s based on the Bhutanese custom that musing on one’s death five times daily brings happiness.

The WeCroak app sends these death reminders at “random times and at any moment, just like death,” and is accompanied by a quote meant to encourage “contemplation, conscious breathing or meditation.”

There I am, swearing to the uncaring Gods about not being able to get a park right outside my local café, and ‘ding’ – here’s one now! It goes without saying that I don’t read it until I am parked, at which point it says, “Don’t forget, you’re going to die.” My coffee never tasted better.

Later, I’m down among the masses at the supermarket, hanging out in the frozen section, when ‘ding’ and in comes “Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.” One of my personal faves.

Now, I realise this app is not for everybody. Being reminded of your mortality when you least expect it, is not everyone’s choice of coffin lid. The New York-based app makers discovered that early on. At the end of their first year, the total downloads were a small 84. By January 2018, and after some national media coverage, it had risen to a modest 9k. I have no idea where it’s at right now, but it’s survived – or at least, it hasn’t died.

The other defining feature of WeCroak is that the designers are clear that the app has no advertising, no addictive qualities, and no ability to do anything other than send texts. They want people to reconnect with themselves, not fall deeper into the cyber abyss. Users spend an average of 36 seconds a day on WeCroak, so that’s clearly working out for them.

The quotes used come from a variety of ever-growing sources, including W.H. Auden, Emily Dickinson, Margaret Atwood, Marlene Dietrich, Pablo Neruda, Henry David Thoreau, Charles Bukowski, and Lao Tzu.

Most of WeCroak’s users are under 35-years-old – which fits with the hubris of youth. Always easier to coolly consider your own death when it feels like a million abstract years away. The real test is thinking on it when it’s lurking in those darkened woods just a wee bit farther down the road.

For me, I hate smartphones anyway. When I get a text from anybody about anything, my reaction is to inwardly wince. WeCroak changes the game somewhat. Instead of seeing who it’s from and thinking “what fresh hell is this” I get a death text and feel centred somehow. I mean, how could “The grave has no sunny corners” not do that to a person?

While it’s fair to say that death is a taboo for some, it’s worth thinking about whether that endless family drama you’re engaged in, or that interminable work anxiety, is actually all that big. You know, in the scheme of things.

I share an irreverent sense of the absurd with a close friend. As we emerged out of the hospital doors after her first post-cancer MRI last week, she was a bit emotionally shaky on it.

Right then, my phone dinged and, reading aloud, I said, “The other side of the ‘sacred’ is the sight of your beloved friend in the underworld, dripping with maggots.”

Honestly, the instantaneous belly laughs were priceless. For everything else, there’s MasterCard.

Listen to the full episode of Riding Shotgun.