When I was 14, I decided how I wanted to die. As a child, I’d wondered about death, but in junior high school, the issue became pivotal: One of my classmates, Melissa, was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. Melissa’s struggle to regain her health — and the peace she made with her decline — impressed me with life’s impermanence.
So influenced I was by my classmate’s death that I wrote extensively in my journal exactly how I wanted to be remembered, who I wanted to speak at my memorial service, and what my biggest regrets would be if I were to die suddenly. My father and I discussed funeral expenses.
More than 20 years later, even as I’ve grieved other losses, I’ve never seen death as an enemy but, rather, as a pending date. Nor have I ever feared to discuss matters of life and death with those closest to me.
Yet the cultural prohibition against a broader discussion of the topic stuns me. Our society tends to restrict end-of-life issues to the old and ailing; we view mortality as a disease that science hasn’t yet discovered a cure for.
I remember watching Melissa walk around campus with a dignity and resolve rarely seen in someone so young. When her cancer was first diagnosed, it had already grown beyond its early stage, and Melissa knew she had a long fight ahead. Yet she rarely lost her smile or her resolve. After chemotherapy, radiation treatments and surgery, her staunch efforts were rewarded: the cancer disappeared.
In an essay, “Why Do I Want To Live And Why Is Life Precious To Me?” from May 1989, Melissa wrote:
“When I thought I was going to die, I was jealous of all the people that would live and never have this disease. I was jealous of my classmates. They were all going to be able to drive cars, reach the drinking and voting age, meet the guy or girl of their dreams, have beautiful children, and live out a long and wonderful life. I guess you could say the ‘want’ to do everything everyone else was doing got me through it all . . . .”
Her remission was short-lived. Within a few weeks, the cancer resurfaced and metastasized rapidly. Though she had dreams and every reason to continue fighting, she also knew her body, still weak from earlier treatments, was not going to survive another battle. She died in August, only three months after writing her declaration of life.
In the last year of her life, Melissa confided to a close friend that, though she wanted to continue living, she wasn’t afraid to die. She said the hardest part would be leaving her family behind.
In her book, “The Last Adventure of Life: Sacred Resources for Living and Dying from a Hospice Counselor,” bereavement counselor and author Maria Dancing Heart Hoaglund writes: “Facing death is definitely something we do not want to wait until the last minute to deal with, when our body strength may be dwindling, our concentration weakening, and our emotions distracted by death’s encroachment. In fact, I have come to see that talking, reading, and thinking about one’s death — even visualizing it — can be one of the most rewarding experiences of a lifetime.”
That doesn’t mean romanticizing our final moments or denying our fears. Essentially, it’s those very fears that need to be invited into the discussion — along with our values, responsibilities and regrets — and all parts of ourselves that give our lives meaning. Why postpone making important decisions, or at least asking ourselves essential questions?
In junior high, Melissa’s death taught me to face my own inevitable departure from life with forthrightness and courage. I have carried the lesson with me ever since. Individually and collectively, we need to make peace with death.
Fordrena Griffith (drena_in_awe@postinbox.com) of Aurora works as a bookseller, writes and teaches music.
