Coming to terms ...

Joshua Bright

We all die, stars, galaxies, us, no exceptions though billionaires are tying their best to undo this certain truth but that's a topic for another time. Yours truly came close to death while at the same time, Fortuna smiled on me as a calcium overload and stage one cancer did not do me in, saved to write another day thanks to outstanding medical care for the ages. With this in mind, the thought of death never entered the equation though one's perspective on life changes as friends, family and loyalty matters while the rest is secondary at best.

A piece in the NYTimes seems apropos as an honest discussion about death and how one approaches it is needed as American avoids this topic with great passion, a most unfortunate situation in the land of the brave and home of the free.

Nine years ago, I think my patient sensed both my urge to tell him something and my hesitance. “Are you OK?” he asked me one day.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” I stammered, looking past him at the eye chart on the wall. “I’m worried about you, because every time I see you, you’re losing weight and seem less like yourself.”

“It’s because I’m dying.” He was matter-of-fact, as though he’d just said it was raining outside.

I was stunned, then relieved. Yet I still struggled to tell him what I wanted to say. “I am so sorry,” I whispered.

“It’s not your fault. My father died in my arms. So did my wife,” he said. “It’s just my turn now.”

“I feel bad that I didn’t talk to you about this sooner,” I said. “I thought I’d upset you or maybe you weren’t ready yet.”

He laughed. “Ready?” he said. “I’ve wrapped my head around being dead, certainly. Not sure if I’ll ever really be ready. It’s not like packing a bag and standing outside waiting for a taxi.”

He died in his sleep a month later, missing his vacation and his friend’s wedding. Even if he told me he was ready, nothing could have lessened the blunt force of losing him.

Fortuna governs the circle of the four stages of life,

the Wheel of Fortune, in a manuscript of Carmina Burana[3]

In closing ...

In the years since, I have learned that trying to find immutable evidence of 

someone’s readiness to die is like trying to wrap your arms around a ghost.