Our society rarely discusses or even mentions death (aside from police procedurals). It’s so rare that it feels strange and exciting to write about it, breaking human life’s protocol by discussing something we all will share with everyone we love.

One of the many things I learned in my hospice work is that death can be beautiful, meaningful, and sad if we don’t hide from it.

Maria and I were visiting a close friend recently, and I mentioned casually that their friendship was beautiful to me; it felt good to know that when I died – I am 17 years older than Maria –  her friend would be there to help her.

Later, Maria said her friend told her that she was shocked to hear a man mentioning death in front of his wife, or at all. It was just something that was never mentioned in her household or the household of many couples.

Another friend is suffering greatly from a series of incurable diseases. She is in awful distress, and so is her family. I reminded my friend that I was a longtime hospice volunteer, still active when asked. Were they thinking of asking hospice to help her end her life in comfort and stop the pain and endless surgeries? Could I help?

The question shocked them. No one had ever talked about dying with her; they had no idea what she felt about it. She was just driven from surgery to surgery and hospital to hospital.

That is hard for me to hear. Talking about death is perhaps the healthiest thing I have ever done.

I remember in hospice how so many children told me their parents were not quitters and were hanging on, only to learn when I was alone with the patient that they were eager to die, but their loved ones wouldn’t let them. They had never spoken to each other about death.

Maria and I decided that since I am older than her and have heart disease and diabetes, the odds were that I would die first, although that could, of course, change. Life has its schedule, as I was reminded of recently when a car plowed into Maria’s car while she was trying to turn. Nobody died, but it was close.

We want to do this right—openly and with love. Like anything worthwhile, it takes work.

Things like that always remind me to talk about my death so that Maria is not stunned by it, or that I’m not if it comes to that,  and we can have honest talks about the aftermath.  She agrees it is essential.

Our talks are brief, honest, and precious. We don’t wallow on the subject, but it isn’t taboo. In my first marriage, it was never discussed. Maria and I love one another even more when we talk about death. Then, we can move on and live.

 

 

I have benefited the most from this; I am learning. I no longer worry about whether or not she is prepared enough to deal with it. She is. I don’t need to be condescending anymore or worry about her. She can and will take care of herself and endure the pain and loss.

The simple truth is that I am 77 and entering my 78th year. We all know many people who haven’t made it that far. I do have Dyslexia, but I get those numbers and what they mean. Living well has much to do with the spirituality of wholeheartedness I have developed and embraced.

I see life as more of a grace and a gift, a time to live with eager and gentle expectations of its goodness and many challenges. It is not a burden but an opportunity.

It’s a difficult lesson, one hardly anyone can teach me. I have slowly and often painfully learned that the quality of my mind depends much more on my fundamental spirituality than on my physical condition (which is how almost every older person I know judges me).

The more I can talk about it, the less afraid I am of it. And I don’t talk about it often.

Life is for the living, I believe, and the challenge of living fully and happily is to learn to live it fully, to be grateful for every day, and to accept the absolute certainty that I will die—no question about it. In the meantime, I will live my life, not dread my death. I consider that actual health is not just a bathroom full of pills. Attitude is, by far, the most potent medication for me.

The aging process in America often teaches us to surrender because the language and understanding of getting older is dangerous, self-destructive, and unhealthy.

We are always telling ourselves – and the world around us is telling us – that we are too tired and weak to live.  Mostly, we are expected to drop out of sight and stay there.

Our society thinks being barred from our lifetime’s work is a gift.  It can be a death.

I knew my publisher would chuck me into the trash when I got older. I went happily, but I didn’t disappear as expected. I won’t disappear, not in that way. That’s my choice, not an act of nature.

We always buy the idea that we are too old to do things: “I’m older now, and I can’t do the things I could do once.”

Because this is often true and needs to be accepted, it’s only a part of life.

I can’t take long walks anymore, but I can take beautiful flower photos for people or write essays like this that people can read and help a food pantry get food.

We can drive to movies and museums, and when the weather is good, I can take the walks I love so much. I want to keep on becoming, not feel sorry for myself or be afraid to die.

I’ve gained a lot more than I lost.

That’s much more than I did ten years ago, and I am doing it better. I love my wife more than ever and feel love in every possible and imaginable way. And guess what what? She loves me back.

I got my turn, and I’m still living it. Lots of people don’t get that far. I’m not done yet.

What its my head and hope is a lot stronger than any medication I’ve been prescribed. I accept the gift of life and receive it with an open heart, if not the strongest one of the athletes.

The danger for me is not that I will die – of course, I will – the danger is that I will allow myself to become less than I can be more quickly than I need to.

The great gift of old age for me is that I am called every day to go inside, to go down deeper and deeper into myself to discover and be free and use everything I am.  Right now, right there.

There is quite a lot of me left. And once in a while, I need to talk about it and write about my death, not just pretend it will never happen.