I’ve been thinking about death. Fleeting thoughts. For several reasons. I’ve just learned that my mother, who’s 83, has a growth on her liver that could be cancerous. My dog died recently. Sept. 11 is approaching. Summer is dying into fall and I just read about advance directives, which I’d never thought about before.
I used to tempt death when I was young, throwing myself in its face, skydiving and such. And, finally, death got tired of this taunting and raised its head in my direction. This was “back in the day,” when I was 20, riding in a Volkswagen bug with two other co-eds, both named Linda. I’d met them through the ride board at Ohio University, to get a ride to Kent State. This was five months after the Kent State shootings, wherein four students were shot dead by national guardsmen their same age, on opposite sides of belief about war.
We drove to Kent State, spent the weekend, and headed back on Sunday. About 50 miles from OU, we stopped to pick up a hitchhiker, a clean-cut guy, also going back to school. I was sitting behind Linda, the driver. The hitchhiker – his name was Bill – had long legs. Linda the driver had her seat far forward. I scooted over so he could have more legroom. He climbed over me and an hour later both he and Linda were dead. A big Impala smashed into their side of the car. James, the Impala’s driver, had fallen asleep at the wheel. I was in the hospital for six weeks. The other Linda had minor physical injuries, but major ones in the big scope of things, I think.
I have come to a place of acceptance about the accident, and it has made me less afraid of death. For years I said, “I gave Bill my seat.” My wise friend Layne finally said, “No. Bill took his seat.”
Whatever your belief system, one thing is certain: Our time here is finite. Today I believe that we each have an allotted number of breaths. When you’ve exhaled your last one, your life is over. The flame is extinguished.
My father died suddenly, at 67. He and my mother were visiting Colorado. We had breakfast together, laughed and talked. He was healthy, as far as we knew. My parents left my house, headed west and stopped in Central City. My dad won $50 at blackjack, ate a big steak, got in the rented, powder-blue Cadillac (free upgrade), had a heart attack and took his last breath at the entrance of the Lost Gold Mine. Hunter Thompson’s farewell is overkill, by comparison.
The truth is that almost no one dies peacefully in bed, in good health, having made amends with every other living soul. Yes, it’s important to stay healthy and do our best to attain a long, vital life. But I heard a story about the comedian Redd Foxx, who was speaking to the staff of a hospice in a well-to-do community. He said, “You all are so healthy. You exercise, eat right and avoid bad habits. One of these days you’re going to die of nothing.” And so I do not wait for death.
When I ride behind my favorite plumber, Jack, on his Harley, and feel that first rush of air and velocity and open country, I think: I could die here. And that would be all right. Then I get bored and my back hurts. That’s life.
Sept. 11, 2001, was a day of reckoning for many people. I know one woman who finally left her husband, another who quit a bad job. Death is a wake-up call.
So here are my suggestions if you are waiting for death and have time on your hands:
Forgive an enemy, even if you know you’re right.
Sit down somewhere for no good reason. Stop thinking. Stop planning. Look at the clouds or the ceiling. Listen to crickets or the hum of your refrigerator. Feel your heart beating.
Polish the shoes of someone you love and line them all up in his or her closet.
Forgive yourself for biting your fingernails. They’ll grow when the rest of your body won’t.
Most of the world’s people are worse off than you are. Do something about it.
Give away one of those treasures you’ve been storing up. Give it to someone who wants or needs it, even if they don’t deserve it.
Spring for that ticket to Hawaii.
Say an emphatic “no” to something you hate doing.
I’ve revised the adage “Live as though today is your last day on Earth.” I say, “Live as though this moment is your last.” Breathe deeply, breathe fully.
Karen Sbrockey (ksbrockey@earthlink.net) is a coordinator of health education information.
