On a recent walk with a law school comrade, my friend mentioned that she was not afraid of dying. She is smart, vigorous, and healthy – and middle-aged. She has no reason to believe that her demise is on the horizon; it is just that you never know when the Grim Reaper is going to show up unannounced and casually beckon you with his forefinger.
I was a bit dumbstruck by her comment, other than to be impressed that she had the courage to even consider the eventually. But ironically, I have been thinking about death quite a bit lately. Not in a gloomy, depressed manner, although to be fair, not in a cheerful, this-is-going-to-be-a-fabulous-spiritual-adventure sort of way, either. It is just that the signs are all around me that I am going to die. I fluctuate between denial and foreboding.
Every doctor’s appointment fills me with dread. I am convinced that every new blemish is skin cancer, and I have told my dermatologist that I qualify for frequent flyer discounts for my constant visits. I breathe deeply and deliberately when my dentist is looking at x-rays or poking around my gums. The hand surgeon I consulted about the bony protrusion on my knuckle was confident that my ganglion cyst was not bone cancer, and testing bore that out. I apologized profusely to my primary care doctor during a recent visit for ignoring him for two years, and I complained that aging required too much health attentiveness. In a practiced, professional voice, he essentially told me that currently I had nothing to worry about, to keep up the good work, and to stop whining.
I am reading a book by Arthur C. Brooks, From Strength to Strength, and it is not helping me ignore reality. His hypothesis is that after middle age, ambitious “strivers” find it increasingly difficult to achieve success, and that even when they do, the feelings of satisfaction are fleeting. The second half of life is hallmarked by attempts to overcome natural age-related declines in physical capabilities and changes in intellect. His theory is that accepting and pondering death enhances the enjoyment and wonder of a mature life.
I can embrace that premise, but my angst is dying younger than I want to. I am not apprehensive about the process; from what I have read, the act of perishing can be peaceful, and if it is not, at least the horror of it will not replay in my consciousness for decades afterwards. If I develop a terminal illness, I am confident that I can stay relatively pain free with medication. (Or alternatively, I can hoard it until I have compiled enough pills to take them in one fell swoop.)
I am surrounded, and uplifted, by stories of elderly women who embraced their death with vibrant spirit and intellect. My aunt told me at her 100th birthday party that she was happy to go at any time, that she had had an extraordinary life, and that, “the world does not owe me anything.” My maternal grandmother, who died at age 103, related to her pastor shortly before her death that she had no fear. One dear friend’s mother wondered, with humor, after hearing an ambulance siren whether it was coming for her, because she was “ready.” And then there is the rockstar mom of a soul sister of mine who decided to take matters into her own hands at age 101, after a final visit to a beloved vacation home - she simply refused to eat or drink and lapsed into a coma and died eleven days later.
It is not that I want to live forever – not at all. I just do not want to leave the earth too soon. A part of my brain wants to fight like hell and stay ambitious, successful, and accomplished for as long as I can and build a greater economic legacy. But the rational part of my mind understands that enjoying my remaining years with travel, connection with friends and family, and the joy of watching my kids’ lives unfold is far more imperative than material or professional achievement.
I guess it is time to come to grips with descent and diminution. Or at least consider that I am not going to live forever.