There is the story of a golfer who loved the game so much he wanted to make sure the afterlife included his favorite sport. So he marched into a soothsayer’s office and asked: “Is there golfing in heaven?” The soothsayer looked at her crystal ball for a few minutes and said “I have some good news and some bad news.” The good news? “Yes, there is golfing in heaven!” The bad? “You’re teeing off tomorrow at 10.”
For most of my life I’ve conjectured, soul-searched and ruminated about the day I’ll be teeing off (or for me as a tennis player, getting my Court Time). And it’s not so much post-exit as pre: what will my last day on earth be like? Will I feel panicked? Enlightened? Both? Will I be Kubler Rossing through all 5 stages from denial to acceptance? Will I die well?
I understand there’s a solid chance my last moments will be out of my control, especially since suicide isn’t an option. I could die suddenly in a car accident. I could be in a coma for months and then simply check out. Or, blessing of blessings, I could die in my sleep as my saintly grandmother did.
That being said, I’ve always envisioned a bit of a Hollywood ending to my life, where I’m laying in some hospital or bedroom, surrounded by family, and my last moments are spent saying goodbye, tying up loose ends, or dispensing hard earned wisdom. This is at least what I would want to happen. I want to die with love and perspective, being able to put aside my fears of the unknown with the known qualities of my beliefs and desires.
But though I hope and pray my best self appears, I’m afraid it won’t. The fact is: death scares the hell out of me and always has, not only intellectually but viscerally. It’s the Big Unknown, the Big Loss of Control, and I don’t do well with either. Although I believe in a happy and fulfilling afterlife, I can’t GUARANTEE it exists, and if I’m wrong, I’m not the type that can comes to grips with a gazillion years of eternal nothingness.
And then of course there’s the potential pain. I’ve been writing recently about the famous psychiatrist Dr. Gerald May, where I describe his last weeks in the hospital as “torturous, an extended stay of sleeplessness, extreme discomfort, and even temporary psychosis. His son Greg said his father at times was ‘scared, anxious, so very sad, hopeless, hurting, and lost.’” Yikes. And this is a guy who was one of the great Spiritual Directors of all time.
But if possible, I want to face it all. I want to die with a sense of integrity and even nobility, even if the pain and suffering is more than I can handle. Most of my life I’ve prayed to that end. Part of this is related to how I see death--not as an end to existence but as a start to an incredible adventure-- and I want to embrace the latter with my words and actions.
An ego thing? Maybe. Part of me likes the idea of being William Wallace in Braveheart when he has the courage to yell “Freedom!” as he’s being tortured to death. But it’s also a legacy thing. How a person dies is related to how they’ve lived, and I want to show those coming after me that love and hope can win the day.
Of course this will take a boatload of grace to pull off. I’m praying for that too. I can certainly imagine a scenario where I’m burdened by suffering, regret, and paralyzing existential fear. I will need help to be my best and most courageous self. And it will probably help to start dying to myself on a daily basis beginning now.
With all Dr. Gerald May went through at the end of his life, he had one more thing to say before departing. Surrounded by his wife Betty and children and grandchildren, Jerry simply said “Trust in love.” Not some bedside beatitude to make everyone feel better or psycho-spiritual “Rosebud” meant to be unpacked and interpreted over the generations. These simple words, repeated for emphasis, were expected to fall on knowing and receptive ears. And they were.
For most of my life I’ve conjectured, soul-searched and ruminated about the day I’ll be teeing off (or for me as a tennis player, getting my Court Time). And it’s not so much post-exit as pre: what will my last day on earth be like? Will I feel panicked? Enlightened? Both? Will I be Kubler Rossing through all 5 stages from denial to acceptance? Will I die well?
I understand there’s a solid chance my last moments will be out of my control, especially since suicide isn’t an option. I could die suddenly in a car accident. I could be in a coma for months and then simply check out. Or, blessing of blessings, I could die in my sleep as my saintly grandmother did.
That being said, I’ve always envisioned a bit of a Hollywood ending to my life, where I’m laying in some hospital or bedroom, surrounded by family, and my last moments are spent saying goodbye, tying up loose ends, or dispensing hard earned wisdom. This is at least what I would want to happen. I want to die with love and perspective, being able to put aside my fears of the unknown with the known qualities of my beliefs and desires.
But though I hope and pray my best self appears, I’m afraid it won’t. The fact is: death scares the hell out of me and always has, not only intellectually but viscerally. It’s the Big Unknown, the Big Loss of Control, and I don’t do well with either. Although I believe in a happy and fulfilling afterlife, I can’t GUARANTEE it exists, and if I’m wrong, I’m not the type that can comes to grips with a gazillion years of eternal nothingness.
And then of course there’s the potential pain. I’ve been writing recently about the famous psychiatrist Dr. Gerald May, where I describe his last weeks in the hospital as “torturous, an extended stay of sleeplessness, extreme discomfort, and even temporary psychosis. His son Greg said his father at times was ‘scared, anxious, so very sad, hopeless, hurting, and lost.’” Yikes. And this is a guy who was one of the great Spiritual Directors of all time.
But if possible, I want to face it all. I want to die with a sense of integrity and even nobility, even if the pain and suffering is more than I can handle. Most of my life I’ve prayed to that end. Part of this is related to how I see death--not as an end to existence but as a start to an incredible adventure-- and I want to embrace the latter with my words and actions.
An ego thing? Maybe. Part of me likes the idea of being William Wallace in Braveheart when he has the courage to yell “Freedom!” as he’s being tortured to death. But it’s also a legacy thing. How a person dies is related to how they’ve lived, and I want to show those coming after me that love and hope can win the day.
Of course this will take a boatload of grace to pull off. I’m praying for that too. I can certainly imagine a scenario where I’m burdened by suffering, regret, and paralyzing existential fear. I will need help to be my best and most courageous self. And it will probably help to start dying to myself on a daily basis beginning now.
With all Dr. Gerald May went through at the end of his life, he had one more thing to say before departing. Surrounded by his wife Betty and children and grandchildren, Jerry simply said “Trust in love.” Not some bedside beatitude to make everyone feel better or psycho-spiritual “Rosebud” meant to be unpacked and interpreted over the generations. These simple words, repeated for emphasis, were expected to fall on knowing and receptive ears. And they were.
RSS Feed