If you could know when and how your life would end, would you want to? Would it be like living a death sentence, which, realistically, we are anyway. Or would it provide you with surety so that you can plan accordingly?
One of my father’s favourite borrowed lines: the only two certainties in life are death and taxes. It is said that Benjamin Franklin uttered those words in 1789. Over two hundred years later it still rings true.
I’ve written about a dear friend who, 15 months before he died was given a terminal diagnosis and an end date of approximately 18 months. He didn’t make it that long. He knew from that horrible day in the clinic that he wanted to pass on his own terms, not waiting for the angel of death to choke him. He remained pragmatic, stoic and supremely optimistic throughout his cruel decline. When told to travel and golf as much as he could, he did. His family and community clustered as best they could around him. Not everyone is cut out to manage the dying process.
It’s particularly challenging when hopelessness lands on the same day as the diagnosis. No conventional or experimental treatment, no remission, no exceptions. I don’t want to get your hopes up. Not even more tests, laid out as a thin shaft of light.
Many people have bucket lists. I’m not sure if they are recorded in their hard drive, or simply a mental list of wishes and wants while they are alive. Perhaps it’s a guidepost, though often I witness it as a series of experiences and accomplishments to be checked off. Do we ever really know when we’ve completed our lives? Or is that left for the undertaker?
I recently finished a novel (Here One Moment by Liane Moriarty) about a woman who, in a trance of sorts, went down the aisle of an airplane and declared to each passenger their time and cause of death. Most denied its truth and plausibility. All had an obsessive fear kindled. Only one chose to live differently, in case it came true. The others made their lives small and protective. A daily fight against fate. What would I do in a similar circumstance? Live for the “just in case” or resist?
My belief system would determine my response. I am not one to give up. At the same time, I am a realist, with a fundamental trust that my life has and will continue to unfold as it is meant to, despite how hard I try to exert control. Only later in life did I learn that I must show up and do the work, however the outcomes will be the result of the forces of the universe. Sounds woo-woo? How many disappointments have we had, only to end up with something better? What about the stories of people who missed the flight that crashed, as they ranted and threw tantrums in the airport?
That’s not to shirk responsibility for our lives, wellbeing, and that of those we care about. Instead, it’s a reminder for me of the fragility and finite nature of my life.
As I journey towards turning seventy, I am taking less for granted. The gift is that I notice the golden late summer fields. The incredible layers of blue in the Bay. My pup’s golden eyes. The frosted white valley before me. My grandson’s arms around my neck. My eyes wide open, my mind quiet, my body still.
I am also stepping up my body care routine. As I have said before, I can’t control the quantity of my life, only the quality. I am seeking a balance between Draconian longevity measures and enjoying potato chips and chocolate – often.
Another time I’ll tell you about how agitated and terrified I am about AI, as it is invading every line as I write. And I just learned that the data centres that process the information are contributing to our drought. I fear dying in a sterile clinic with robots administering to me as I beg to relocate to Mars, where apparently there is water.