When we are young, we rarely fear our own death. It's a question that never comes up.
Later in life, sooner or later, the question becomes urgent. We seek to understand it, often in terms relating to the loss experienced by our loved ones. But this is not to face the question of death squarely — rather it is to deflect the question to others' experience, so that we do not have to engage the problem directly, to ask: What happens to me when I die? Which is the same sort of question as, Where was I before I was born?
Plato was fond of saying that all of philosophy is but preparation for death. Sounds pretty screwy by modern standards, I'm sure. Still, there's much going on there, beneath the surface level of the statement. Or so it seems to me.
Do I have the capacity to understand what you are trying to say? You tell me, LG.
Then we try to find something that will appease our of fear and, bingo, the fishers of men have their catch! We cling to religion out of fear, don't we? Fear fills the churches.
I don't know. You missed the point.
There is no question or fear of death. The fear is of the sorrow (or joy as the case might be to some) that my death will cause to those who love me.
This came as quite a revelation to me when I almost died once, I decided to live for their sake.