Death Is Easy. Dying Is Hard.
Almost exactly a year after my grandfather, my grandmother has died. And I am no closer to understanding how to deal with death today as I was then. My grandfather was the first person who had died that I was remotely close to, and as such, was the first time I had to confront the nastiness of finite mortality. And I hated it. More than just dealing with the idea that, one day, my consciousness will evaporate into nothingness, I felt that the whole process of dealing with the death of a loved one to be nonsensical and detrimental to everyone involved.
My grandfather spent the better part of a decade dying. His care was intensive, as he was bed-ridden for a long period of time. While physically incapacitated, he was at least mentally aware, until a few months before his death when he suffered a stroke, after which he faded into the abyss. Seeing someone you once knew go from lucid to lost is not pleasant. It is an uncomfortable realization when someone you knew and loved can no longer remember who you are. It is at this point that one must face the fact that personality and characteristics are primarily tied to brain function, and when the brain no longer functions like it once did, the person you once knew is already gone. I saw a glance of this when Patty had her seizure; some aspects of her personality have changed entirely, just because her brain now functions differently with the proper medication.
Now that I no longer live with the premise that a person has a spirit that contains the fundamental aspects of their character, I must be able to understand and deal with the consequences of that philosophy; that character comes strictly out of the physical brain, and that injuries and disorders to that brain will potentially impact what kind of person they are. As hard as it is to accept at times, my experiences with Patty's epilepsy and Joey's brain injury, as well as the mental fading of the elderly people I have known in my life, show me that this is fundamentally true. Seeing how the nature of a person can so drastically change after such drastic or degenerative changes to their brain function, it becomes difficult for me to even consider that a person can exist beyond death.
However, from a personal standpoint, this future non-existence is not a big deal. When I die, I am nothing. I won't persist in any meaningful way. I won't remember, I won't dream, I won't feel pleasure or feel pain. It's easy. It's null existence. It's the process of dying itself that becomes terrifying; years spent in agony, reduced awareness and reduced usefulness.
The near fanatical devotion to extending life makes no sense to me. I don't want to die tomorrow, or even "at the top" of my life, but I don't want to persist to 90 for the sake of persisting. There has got to be a point where the benefits of living no longer outweigh the benefits of ending life. If my kids are gone, and my loose ends are tied up, the barrier for entry to the abyss all of a sudden becomes a lot easier, especially if a major illness crops up.
What makes even less sense is how we treat death. Family gets together after the person has died to hold some kind of memorial service. An opportunity to comfort a person at the end of their life is wasted. Instead of sharing memories and happier times with the person about to depart, they must be shared without them. It is a strange concept to me to see family voyage many miles to mourn that they will never see a loved one again, when they rarely made the voyage to see them while they were alive. Maybe this is a matter of perspective from a person who sees the deceased as irrecoverably lost. Maybe for those who believe in a spiritual facet, the last opportunity to spend life with a loved one while still living doesn't have such a high cost that I try to assign to it. Even so, the process seems so backwards to me. There is a terrible irony that a deathbed is lonely but a funeral is well attended.
It is my hope that the end of my life is handled in a much more pleasant fashion. When the time comes, where the realization that my life has reached the end of its usefulness, either mentally or physically, and that efforts to maintain life have severely diminished returns, that I will gather family and friends together for a last hurrah, to enjoy their company while I still live. To tell stories, to hear stories, to enjoy companionship one last time, to toast a life well lived, is my hope. When the party is over, I hope the very closest of friends and family would be merciful enough to help me end my life peacefully. My goal for the end of my life is a happy death. Ideally, Patty and I will live a long life together, and experience that happy death together. There will be no extended hospital stays fighting terminal illnesses for me, at least not past a reasonable age.
Lessons Learned
That being said, given that the life being celebrated has ended, there are ample opportunities for contemplation and reflection, opportunities to teach and learn. And surprisingly, to feel the joy of being a parent, in seeing the humanity in my own children, to see them discover the nuances of their own mortality for the first time, and to be surprised with how they discover facets of death we had not seen ourselves. It is a strange sensation to be completely surprised with my children's reactions to things, but at the same time, not be surprised at all. Both of our kids have very distinct personalities, and it is interesting to see the spectrum of responses when exposed to new circumstances.
In the case of my grandmother's death, this was Joey and Christi's first experience seeing a dead body. We tried to prepare them for the experience beforehand, explaining them the traditions of a wake, and how to be respectful. At the same time, we wanted to honor their emotions regarding the event, and encourage them to express their feelings toward it. Joey has always been what we called an "emotional weather vane"; whatever the prevailing feeling is around him, he feels. If people around him are sad, he is sad. If people around him are happy, he is happy. I don't think he even really understands his emotions, but just like everything with him, he just is. He is a leaf in a river, always going with the flow. Seeing grandma's dead body didn't really disturb him so much as it enforced the sadness he already felt. What really hit it home for him was when he finally realized that it was his grandpa's mother that died. He is pretty close to his grandpa, so seeing how sad it was for my dad really made it sad for Joey. The empathy that my son possesses reveals a humanity within him that is so beautiful and comforting.
Christi on the other hand, is much more cerebral, almost to the point of emotional obliviousness. She remembered her job from last year, to be a hug dispenser for anyone who was sad. To accomplish this job, she demanded that I refill her with hugs beforehand so that she could give them out at the wake. I couldn't really say that she was filled with sorrow, but she did her job admirably, though she was definitely apprehensive about seeing the body. After a while, she worked up the courage, held Patty's hand, and asked to go up. Once she saw the body, she remarked how beautiful great-grandma looked, even saying that she was more beautiful coffin than she was when she was alive. She then said, "huh, even death can be beautiful". How moving, to hear those words from a nine year old girl? How brave, for her to tackle her fear head-on, look death in the face, and confront it in such a matter-of-fact way? I hope that the courage and rationality persists with her, so that she can one day help her parents transition to a beautiful death.
As for me, even though I felt sorrow for my own mortality, anger for having to step into a church again so soon, and a general confusion regarding how to best deal with the anger while still being supportive of family (seems the only coping mechanism I have is passive aggressive sarcasm and lots of tongue biting), I felt close to my little family. Driving home from the wake, and chatting while sipping on hot cocoas and coffee at the Flying M afterwards, I realize how special this little foursome is to me. My cerebral daughter, my empathetic son, my encouraging wife, we make a great team. I may not persist until I am 90, but I am going to have a great life with them, and hopefully a beautiful happy death as well.
Death Is Easy. Dying Is Hard.
Almost exactly a year after my grandfather, my grandmother has died. And I am no closer to understanding how to deal with death today as I was then. My grandfather was the first person who had died that I was remotely close to, and as such, was the first time I had to confront the nastiness of finite mortality. And I hated it. More than just dealing with the idea that, one day, my consciousness will evaporate into nothingness, I felt that the whole process of dealing with the death of a loved one to be nonsensical and detrimental to everyone involved.
My grandfather spent the better part of a decade dying. His care was intensive, as he was bed-ridden for a long period of time. While physically incapacitated, he was at least mentally aware, until a few months before his death when he suffered a stroke, after which he faded into the abyss. Seeing someone you once knew go from lucid to lost is not pleasant. It is an uncomfortable realization when someone you knew and loved can no longer remember who you are. It is at this point that one must face the fact that personality and characteristics are primarily tied to brain function, and when the brain no longer functions like it once did, the person you once knew is already gone. I saw a glance of this when Patty had her seizure; some aspects of her personality have changed entirely, just because her brain now functions differently with the proper medication.
Now that I no longer live with the premise that a person has a spirit that contains the fundamental aspects of their character, I must be able to understand and deal with the consequences of that philosophy; that character comes strictly out of the physical brain, and that injuries and disorders to that brain will potentially impact what kind of person they are. As hard as it is to accept at times, my experiences with Patty's epilepsy and Joey's brain injury, as well as the mental fading of the elderly people I have known in my life, show me that this is fundamentally true. Seeing how the nature of a person can so drastically change after such drastic or degenerative changes to their brain function, it becomes difficult for me to even consider that a person can exist beyond death.
However, from a personal standpoint, this future non-existence is not a big deal. When I die, I am nothing. I won't persist in any meaningful way. I won't remember, I won't dream, I won't feel pleasure or feel pain. It's easy. It's null existence. It's the process of dying itself that becomes terrifying; years spent in agony, reduced awareness and reduced usefulness.
The near fanatical devotion to extending life makes no sense to me. I don't want to die tomorrow, or even "at the top" of my life, but I don't want to persist to 90 for the sake of persisting. There has got to be a point where the benefits of living no longer outweigh the benefits of ending life. If my kids are gone, and my loose ends are tied up, the barrier for entry to the abyss all of a sudden becomes a lot easier, especially if a major illness crops up.
Now that I no longer live with the premise that a person has a spirit that contains the fundamental aspects of their character, I must be able to understand and deal with the consequences of that philosophy; that character comes strictly out of the physical brain, and that injuries and disorders to that brain will potentially impact what kind of person they are. As hard as it is to accept at times, my experiences with Patty's epilepsy and Joey's brain injury, as well as the mental fading of the elderly people I have known in my life, show me that this is fundamentally true. Seeing how the nature of a person can so drastically change after such drastic or degenerative changes to their brain function, it becomes difficult for me to even consider that a person can exist beyond death.
However, from a personal standpoint, this future non-existence is not a big deal. When I die, I am nothing. I won't persist in any meaningful way. I won't remember, I won't dream, I won't feel pleasure or feel pain. It's easy. It's null existence. It's the process of dying itself that becomes terrifying; years spent in agony, reduced awareness and reduced usefulness.
The near fanatical devotion to extending life makes no sense to me. I don't want to die tomorrow, or even "at the top" of my life, but I don't want to persist to 90 for the sake of persisting. There has got to be a point where the benefits of living no longer outweigh the benefits of ending life. If my kids are gone, and my loose ends are tied up, the barrier for entry to the abyss all of a sudden becomes a lot easier, especially if a major illness crops up.
What makes even less sense is how we treat death. Family gets together after the person has died to hold some kind of memorial service. An opportunity to comfort a person at the end of their life is wasted. Instead of sharing memories and happier times with the person about to depart, they must be shared without them. It is a strange concept to me to see family voyage many miles to mourn that they will never see a loved one again, when they rarely made the voyage to see them while they were alive. Maybe this is a matter of perspective from a person who sees the deceased as irrecoverably lost. Maybe for those who believe in a spiritual facet, the last opportunity to spend life with a loved one while still living doesn't have such a high cost that I try to assign to it. Even so, the process seems so backwards to me. There is a terrible irony that a deathbed is lonely but a funeral is well attended.
It is my hope that the end of my life is handled in a much more pleasant fashion. When the time comes, where the realization that my life has reached the end of its usefulness, either mentally or physically, and that efforts to maintain life have severely diminished returns, that I will gather family and friends together for a last hurrah, to enjoy their company while I still live. To tell stories, to hear stories, to enjoy companionship one last time, to toast a life well lived, is my hope. When the party is over, I hope the very closest of friends and family would be merciful enough to help me end my life peacefully. My goal for the end of my life is a happy death. Ideally, Patty and I will live a long life together, and experience that happy death together. There will be no extended hospital stays fighting terminal illnesses for me, at least not past a reasonable age.
Lessons Learned
That being said, given that the life being celebrated has ended, there are ample opportunities for contemplation and reflection, opportunities to teach and learn. And surprisingly, to feel the joy of being a parent, in seeing the humanity in my own children, to see them discover the nuances of their own mortality for the first time, and to be surprised with how they discover facets of death we had not seen ourselves. It is a strange sensation to be completely surprised with my children's reactions to things, but at the same time, not be surprised at all. Both of our kids have very distinct personalities, and it is interesting to see the spectrum of responses when exposed to new circumstances.
In the case of my grandmother's death, this was Joey and Christi's first experience seeing a dead body. We tried to prepare them for the experience beforehand, explaining them the traditions of a wake, and how to be respectful. At the same time, we wanted to honor their emotions regarding the event, and encourage them to express their feelings toward it. Joey has always been what we called an "emotional weather vane"; whatever the prevailing feeling is around him, he feels. If people around him are sad, he is sad. If people around him are happy, he is happy. I don't think he even really understands his emotions, but just like everything with him, he just is. He is a leaf in a river, always going with the flow. Seeing grandma's dead body didn't really disturb him so much as it enforced the sadness he already felt. What really hit it home for him was when he finally realized that it was his grandpa's mother that died. He is pretty close to his grandpa, so seeing how sad it was for my dad really made it sad for Joey. The empathy that my son possesses reveals a humanity within him that is so beautiful and comforting.
Christi on the other hand, is much more cerebral, almost to the point of emotional obliviousness. She remembered her job from last year, to be a hug dispenser for anyone who was sad. To accomplish this job, she demanded that I refill her with hugs beforehand so that she could give them out at the wake. I couldn't really say that she was filled with sorrow, but she did her job admirably, though she was definitely apprehensive about seeing the body. After a while, she worked up the courage, held Patty's hand, and asked to go up. Once she saw the body, she remarked how beautiful great-grandma looked, even saying that she was more beautiful coffin than she was when she was alive. She then said, "huh, even death can be beautiful". How moving, to hear those words from a nine year old girl? How brave, for her to tackle her fear head-on, look death in the face, and confront it in such a matter-of-fact way? I hope that the courage and rationality persists with her, so that she can one day help her parents transition to a beautiful death.
As for me, even though I felt sorrow for my own mortality, anger for having to step into a church again so soon, and a general confusion regarding how to best deal with the anger while still being supportive of family (seems the only coping mechanism I have is passive aggressive sarcasm and lots of tongue biting), I felt close to my little family. Driving home from the wake, and chatting while sipping on hot cocoas and coffee at the Flying M afterwards, I realize how special this little foursome is to me. My cerebral daughter, my empathetic son, my encouraging wife, we make a great team. I may not persist until I am 90, but I am going to have a great life with them, and hopefully a beautiful happy death as well.
