It sounds
like a morbid oxymoron – achieving a good death. Who wants to think about that
– good or bad? But it’s a truism: none of us are getting out alive.
How do you
want to die?
There’s a new
book about how to do it right. It’s by my friend of nearly 30 years, Chris
Palmer: “Achieving a Good Death: A Practical
Guide to the End of Life.”
He’s a fine
writer and it’s a fine book, with sage advice for all phases of the sometimes-awful
process of getting old and dying. Practical stuff, like wills, decluttering,
hospice, and end-of-life options.
But – no
surprise – if not depressing, it’s at least sobering. That’s why I had a hard
time getting through it.
Hmmm. Would I rather contemplate my
future death, or go for a walk? Read about “death cleaning” or something fun?
Or watch another Law & Order rerun? Play with the cat? Feed the
chickens? Clean the garage? Or… just about anything else?
Getting Old
One thing
I’ve discovered about getting old (I’m 78) is that it’s a whole lot easier now to
be happy. Of course, that’s easy for me to say, since I’m financially secure,
healthy, and my brain still works like it’s supposed to. And not unrelated to
all that, I’m married to the woman I love. What else matters?
Yet the
mystery of life and human consciousness only deepens as I get old. Why me? How
is it that I’m here, alive and alert to the Universe around me, in this
particular body, at this particular age, in this particular place? Of all the
billions of humans alive at this moment, and the billions and billions more who
have ever lived, how did I luck out?
Why am I not
a Palestinian trying to stay alive on the streets of Gaza? Or that guy living
in a broken-down van in the Walmart parking lot? If I’d been born into my
Schmidt family, but a few generations earlier, I would have been trapped in a
claustrophobic Mennonite culture, farming wheat on the frigid steppes of
Eastern Europe.
And as if
that’s not mystery enough, what about my place in the whole of the Universe?
The one we know of has been around three times longer than Earth has existed.
It’s size and complexity are beyond human comprehension. Who else is out there?
Consider,
for example, how many grains of sand exist on all the beaches of all the lakes
and rivers and oceans on Earth. In our Universe, there are more planets
orbiting distant stars out there than that number. In all that infinitude, is
it conceivable that we’re the only conscious creatures that exist? And then
there’s the Multiverse…
Yet here I
am, alive in this moment on Planet Earth, blessed with brilliance, cursed with
ignorance.
In any
event, I certainly wasn’t expecting how good this time of life would feel. I’ve
been retired for nearly 20 years, and I thought getting old would be more of
the same. Would I miss the daily challenges and rewards of work, or the
friendships that came with it? Turns out, no and yes. I’ve discovered, nevertheless,
that the closer I get to the end, the richer life has become.
I’ve purged
my urge for something greater or different from life. I’m more content than
ever. How can life get any better than this?, I constantly ask myself,
yet every year I seem to be even happier.
Luck of the Draw
A lot was
luck: being born white, male, American, smarter and healthier than average, and
alive in this peculiar era in history that gave me the freedom to do lots of
different stuff to make a living.
I don’t know
what portion of our fate in life is predetermined by our inherited genes. A
lot. For the geniuses and artistic prodigies among us, it might be about all
that matters. That’s not me, but I did get decent genes. Not great, but decent.
Luck of the draw.
Ephemera
I’m struck
with the profligacy, the immensity of life and death. Every one of us, and
every human ever to have lived on this planet, has a unique genetic picture and
story. For those of us who survive to old age, those stories reflect a kaleidoscope
of experiences and learning. Optimistically, wisdom.
We pass on
our genes, and wisdom, or not. And yet, in every case, it all ends up no more
than smoke in the wind, quickly gone and mostly forgotten. That’s life. So to
speak. But what a waste! Among the rare geniuses among us – the Einsteins and
the Jeffersons and the Vivaldis – they often bequeath us their visions. Humanity
evolves. Art is created. Inventions happen. Yesterday, flush toilets, tomorrow,
AI. The future leaves us behind.
Kicking the Bucket List
Doesn’t
everyone have a bucket list, things they want to do, places to go or live,
stuff to own? All my life I’ve had one. But now, for the first time ever, I
have exhausted my bucket list. Everything I ever imagined doing, I’ve done.
Every place I longed to visit, every national park I dreamed about, I’ve been
there. Every experience I ever truly wanted, I’ve had.
Bicycle-delivery
boy and hippie mailman in San Francisco. Great Lakes protector, lobbyist, and
nemesis of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Non-profit organizer. Newspaper
reporter. Desert land developer. Construction project manager. Environmental
science expert, lobbyist, and gadfly. A V-P of the National Wildlife
Federation. Husband, father, grandfather.
Along the
way, I’ve hitchhiked thousands of miles across the U.S. and Canada, driven
hundreds of thousands more. I’ve seen every state except Hawaii, and most
Canadian provinces. I’ve fished and hiked all over the place, shot a trophy buck
at age 17, and built a birding life list of 555 species. I’ve rafted through
the Grand Canyon nine times (with two more trips ahead).
Having
survived all these years of adventures and an unpredictable career, I know what
makes me happy. I want for nothing. Of any place on Earth that I could live,
I’d pick right where we are in western Oregon. Our home for 20 years is as
close to perfect for us as I ever hoped for. We live in a beautiful garden,
inside and out, all year long. Life’s essentials are just down the hill; if the
big fir trees weren’t in the way, you could see from our house the Walmart,
Safeway, Dutch Bros., vet, ATM, liquor store, dispensary, hospital, and a
lovely walking trail along the river. The college town of Eugene, along the
Willamette River, is but a 25-minute drive away.
My health
issues are minor – a few pills for this and that; my hearing sucks; sometimes my
back hurts; I forget things. But compared to what? It’s all relative.
As if all that
good fortune wasn’t enough to ease my exit ahead, there’s this. I’m married to
a brilliant nurse practitioner and professional coach (who’s given me a loving
family). She knows me, sometimes better than I know myself, so I’ve no anxiety
about dealing with end-of-life options. You do the best you can with what you
got, and I’ve got a partner who knows well the final drill. (Plus, she’s an
exceptional chef and an all-around bad-ass woman.)
I say all
this, not to gloat, but simply to give context to my musings here. I know how
good I’ve got it.
Diehards
I had seen
the elderly woman on prior walks, coming up the wooded trail, along with her
husband. The gray day’s rain, in its early, drizzly stage, hadn’t kept us from
walking this day.
“Diehards,”
I smiled to her as we passed.
She paused,
turned, and said something, but my earbuds’ music drowned it out. I smiled
again, gave her a thumbs up, and kept moving.
A few steps
later, her husband came around a bend. Regular oldsters, like me, trying to
stay fit. As we passed, I said: “Gonna try to live forever.”
What do you
say to that? Not a question, but an aspirational statement. He didn’t reply.
Genes aren’t everything. What you do, or don’t do, every day makes a difference. You walk in the rain.
I plan to
die hard, living my best to the last possible moment. Don’t we all? In his
book, Chris put it this way:
“Paradoxically, despite being what might be termed godlike, we die like any other animal, and the world goes on without us. No one knows the answer to this paradox. Still, we can confidently say that the best way to face death is to grab life by the lapels and engage in it – engaging in those very activities that make us so godlike and so unlike other animals.”
I want to at
least acknowledge that my perspective on death and dying may not resonate with
someone who believes in an afterlife. Having something to look forward to after
you die – it seems to me that would pretty much define how you look at your
own death.
I can see
how that would be comforting. And I’m sure it’s possible to still savor life,
here and now, even while expecting that the best is yet to come (i.e., heaven, your
own planet, reincarnation, 72 virgins, whatever…).
I tried it.
Doesn’t work for me. This is all there is, and that’s its own miracle.
Last
Times
I suspect
that everyone, from time to time, thinks: what if this was the last time I
get the chance to… Fill in the blank. Ride a roller coaster. Visit Europe.
Send your kid off to school. Drink good wine. Play with your favorite pet. Kiss
your lover. Try a gummy. Watch a sunset.
As you get
up in years, the odds dramatically improve that any day, any activity, may,
indeed, be your last one. Along the way, lots of simple “last times” pass
without notice. The last time you caught a fly ball. The last time you drove
100 mph on the freeway. Went six hours without peeing. Weighed less than ___ – fill in the blank.
I can’t
remember the last time I waterskied, or ran a 10k, or toasted a marshmallow, but
I’m positive they really were the “last times.” And that’s okay. “Been there,
done that,” counts for a lot.
The reality
of aging makes it easier to savor every moment, every experience, every human
interaction. To appreciate the moment, even while relishing memories of a
lifetime. It will all be over too soon. What if today really was the “last
time”?
Achieving
a Good Death
Slowly, life
is closing down for me. That’s
natural and I’m finding it’s not all bad. I’m happy with whatever comes next.
As for Chris' book, where I started this blog, the best thing I can say about it is that it forces you to think about what we'd rather ignore -- our own mortality. You can pick and choose the parts of the book that are relevant to you. Most importantly, aside from the practical information about the mechanics and options of our final years, he eloquently confirms the obvious:
“Our very
transience – our realization of how little time we each have on Earth – can
lead us to think about why we’re here and what we can do to make the most of
our lives.”
Chris spent
years pouring his heart and soul into this book, which is passionate, thorough,
and well researched (as evidenced by 22 pages of nearly 400 endnotes). Is it
too much? Perhaps. I don’t think, for example, that I’ll be following his
example to write out detailed instructions for my memorial service program,
along with readings and a music play list. At what point do such prescriptive
details about your dying wishes become more burden than favor to your surviving
loved ones?
But that’s
just me. Perhaps as my time grows even shorter, I’ll reconsider. As Chris
asked:
“At what
point will I realize that it isn’t a future self that will die but my present
self? When will I feel the full force of realizing I will soon cease to exist?”
I don’t feel
I’m in the “soon” stage quite yet. I’ve done a bit of decluttering, but I’m not
yet ready to let go of all my treasured rocks, books, and miscellaneous
gee-gaws. In the meantime, I intend to putter with my clutter, surround myself with beauty, and keep
enjoying this once-in-a-lifetime experience of being alive.
Have I
learned the key to how to “die well,” in order to “achieve a good death”? Chris
succinctly titled his second chapter: “Live Well to Die Well.” If that proves
true, I figure I’m in good shape.
# # #
“Achieving a Good Death: A Practical
Guide to the End of Life”
