Most people die lying in bed. Do you consider that a boring way to go? I read somewhere about a fellow who wanted to die standing up. I don’t think he succeeded, but I give him credit for trying.
Some individuals might want to die in the saddle (not easy, I am sure). Others might want to die in combat or (at a ripe old age) by assassination. How about dying while saving the life of someone else? Note that in all these latter cases the dying person might be standing up!
Other individuals might seek levity in their final moments, e.g., by saying “buh-buh, buh-buh — that’s all folks” or by kicking an actual bucket. A person could go out telling the punch line to a funny joke. But if it turns out that the joke is not funny, the joke teller dies twice — once with the joke and once big time.
Sensitive individuals want only to die surrounded by their loved ones. But those lovely people could use a good laugh, so keep in mind the final-joke idea.
How do I want to die? In my sleep, while dreaming that I am playing basketball and every shot I put up goes in. Then I will die happy (and standing — in the dream).
How about you — if you have a choice, how would you like to die? Does your answer relate to how you like to live?
For more about dying, see my prior posts:
John Malouff, PhD, JD, Assoc Prof of Psychology
Bravo! Good for you asking this question John. Most people prefer to not even discuss death or dying…unless it’s in a joking way, perhaps that makes it a less scary prospect?
Like you, I’d ‘like’ to die in my sleep…and yes, having a great dream at the time would be a bonus.
A couple of years ago, my Mum who was only 60, went home from hospital after having surgery but she was still very unwell. I telephoned to speak to her (she lived interstate) and my Dad told me she was in bed sleeping after a horrid night of pain. She heard him on the phone and asked to talk to me. She became very upset, started crying and told me she was afraid to go to sleep because she thought she may not wake up again and would die. I told her of all the ways to die…when the time came, that would be without doubt my choice! Then, we talked about her illness, all the pain she had been in, the operations she had endured etc. and she finally accepted that dying in her sleep was probably not such a bad thing after all.
My Mum died that night, in her own bed, sleeping next to my Dad. And yes, I felt guilty for a little while, it was as if I had given her permission to die. But, it didn’t take me long to realise how fortunate I was to actually have spoken to her for that last time with love and a caring concern. Many people lose someone they love without having that opportunity. So I am grateful.
Sadly, we live in a society that outsources death and the dying. It’s as if we believe that if we don’t see it, or have to deal with it, then we should be safe from it. When I tell people that I would like to work with people who are dying, in the main they are incredulous and ask why?
Here’s my answer. There’s no BS with people who are actually dying. They have nothing to prove, they don’t care what I think of them…all they care about is ending their life with as little pain as possible. What a privilege to help someone who has come to the end of their life by showing them love and compassion. And listening to them. What stories they have to share…what insights they can offer into what’s really important in this life!
Let’s face it, we start dying from the minute we start living, so perhaps it’s time to start talking about it openly and accepting the reality. Perhaps then the fear will lessen and we can start living this life as full as possible…while we are still alive to enjoy it.
Susan 🙂
Hi Susan. I agree with you about the value of talking about death. I am glad that you had a chance to talk with your mum about dying. I also am glad that you want to work with people who are dying.
We’ve always talked about death in our family. When our youngest kids were little, we would get calls from their school, because their “news” was that their sister might die. We assured the school that this was the case, and to their credit, their teachers understood (in their school, they have the same teacher from year 1 to 7, which helps a lot of in may ways).
The truth is, their sister was, and still is, the owner of a diagnosed terminal condition (90% of kids have died before 6, but the sample size is miniscule; 60 reported cases in the last 30 years, and the expression of the condition is variable). I’m not sure she knows or grasps the concept of being one step away from the other side (as she is profoundly disabled), so she lives life fully each day, and is an absolute delight. Every now and then (much less often now) she would spiral down with a particular syndrome, lie in bed, and we would wait to see what happened. We talked openly with our other 3 children about disability and death, as there was no point in concealing what would become obvious.
Every morning when I opened her door, I wouldn’t know whether or not she would be alive. This taught me to embrace life, and live in the moment. Very zen, but my teacher (my now 22 year old daughter, this week) continues to do just that. At least for today. So, as Horace would say carpe diem!
As to my death, perhaps in a simultaneous dream with my wife, tandem BASE jumping at 123 years old with my wife, from the top of Everest … having summitted by the Australian North Face Route … where we float down … to land in the Valley of Flowers … sip tea and eat apricots with the locals … only to find that we don’t wake, but we don’t know it, so continue our adventures together (but I am a romantic!).
Hi Michael. Your comment raises an important point — loved ones die. Or they could die at any time. The death of a child is usually very hard on parents. I just finished reading “The Fault in our Stars,” a gripping novel that suggests that helf of parents divorce within a year after losing a young child to the Grim Reaper. I don’t know if that is true, but it makes me think that for many individuals, their own death is not the one they dread the most.
It has been an interesting journey. For those people who knew about her prognosis there was often an uncomfortable pause whenever they met us in the street. They didn’t want to ask how that child was, just in case, and then they didn’t want to ask about our other “healthy” children … so we would have to read the situation, let them know she was OK, and resume normal conversation. I think many times they were reflecting on how they would handle the situation, if it was one of their kids.
Many people have said, “I don’t know how you cope.” I usually reply that I’m fine today, because she is OK, but have no idea how I’ll manage her death. Some things you just never know about at all until you are there. It is true that it would feel strange to bury a child, but in my grandparents era, there always seemed to be 1 or 2 that didn’t survive childhood (out of 10+ kids). Perhaps expectations and family dynamics have changed as family size diminishes.
To be honest, we did have more children to “normalise” our life and to give our son siblings. It worked, and is an interesting reflection point for parents with very young disabled and/or terminally ill children, as they plan their way forward.
Michael,
I found your post touching and very close to home. I have an 18yo foster-child who also was born with a serious and life-threatening genetic condition. He has had numerous hospital trips and emergency air ambulance things for his whole life.
When he was 8yo I took him to the hospital for emergency surgery. While he was in there (5 hours) the geneticist who has been supervising his care for ever walked past me in the hallway of the hospital. He invited me up for a coffee and assured me that he would get theatre to page him when they were finished.
Over coffee the geneticist asked me what my part of the journey had been like. I told him about the fact that it had (like all great human experiences) been heaven and hell at the same time. He told me in his “scientist” way that the hospital team had never expected my son to live even for a year, and that they were continually surprised that he was alive and doing well at all.
Simultaneously I felt relief…almost euphoric…..and anger. I realised the importance of balancing hope against acceptance in the starkest most open-wounded way I can imagine. Truth has had a habit of doing that to me.
My son is away at university now…and every time the phone rings I have a little rush of dread. This is pretty weird as I feel like explaining to friends why it takes me a while to warm up on the phone. Certainly family don’t begin to understand.
What I realise is that to be the best carer I can be I have to take the best care of myself first. The journey is big…but oh so rich. We have seen a lot of the other kids die. What I have learned from that is that those who are least afraid of living are least afraid of dying. The over-protected very rarely thank anyone. Obviously there is a balance point there that we all strive for.
Isn’t it funny when people say “I don’t know how you cope”? I always flippantly say that I have coped for the last 5 minutes and I just keep doing that……Actually when we were doing it very tough I remember setting the countdown alarm on my watch to 10 minute intervals….at the end of each I would quietly remind myself that we had all survived again….this is a technique I learned from interval training on my bicycle. It kinda works for me although it probably sounds corny to most.
Anyway…back to study. Thanks for a great post.
Thanks for the comment, Mike.