Diary of a Dying Man – 1-15-09

      My thoughts are on dying recently; not just because I have reached my 75th birthday, but also because of the depressing headlines in the newspapers. And, I must admit, because of my six years as a hospice volunteer and my present responsibilities as a volunteer for Compassion and Choices of Oregon.

     But maybe because of this experience, I have learned to look at my impending demise and those of my loved ones and friends as one of adventure and celebration instead of denial and fear. Life and death are just two sides of the same coin to a spirit which may not die; but maybe find a new dimension in this universe of string theories and hope for something else after.

     A recent article in the New York Times has recently put me into this line of thought. It may interest you; in fact, you or a loved one might have had a similar experience. Please let me know of your experiences.

Richard Ernie Reed

rreed@ram-mail.com

 

In Defense of Death

By DAVID BROOKS

William D. Eddy was an Episcopal minister in Tarrytown, N.Y., and an admirer of the writer and theologian Richard John Neuhaus. When Rev. Eddy grew gravely ill about 20 years ago, I asked Neuhaus to write him a letter of comfort.

I was shocked when I read it a few weeks later. As I recall, Neuhaus's message was this: There are comforting things you and I have learned to say in circumstances such as these, but we don't need those things between ourselves.

Neuhaus then went on to talk frankly and extensively about death. Those two men were in a separate fraternity and could talk directly about things the rest avoided.

Neuhaus was no stranger to death. As a young minister, he worked in the death ward at Kings County Hospital in Brooklyn, a giant room with 50 to 100 dying people in it, where he would accompany two or three to their deaths each day. One sufferer noticed an expression on Neuhaus's face and said, "Oh, oh, don't be afraid," and then sagged back and expired.

Much later, Neuhaus endured his own near-death experience. An undiagnosed tumor led to a ruptured intestine and a series of operations. He recovered slowly, first in intensive care, and then in a regular hospital room, where something strange happened.

"I was sitting up staring intently into the darkness, although in fact I knew my body was lying flat," he later wrote in an essay called "Born Toward Dying" in his magazine, First Things. "What I was staring at was a color like blue and purple, and vaguely in the form of hanging drapery. By the drapery were two 'presences.' I saw them and yet did not see them, and I cannot explain that ...

"And then the presences — one or both of them, I do not know — spoke. This I heard clearly. Not in an ordinary way, for I cannot remember anything about the voice. But the message was beyond mistaking: 'Everything is ready now.' "

That was the end of Neuhaus's vision, but not his experience. "I pinched myself hard, and ran through the multiplication tables, and recalled the birth dates of my seven brothers and sisters, and my wits were vibrantly about me. The whole thing had lasted three or four minutes, maybe less. I resolved at that moment that I would never, never let anything dissuade me from the reality of what had happened. Knowing myself, I expected I would later be inclined to doubt it. It was an experience as real, as powerfully confirmed by the senses, as anything I have ever known."

Most scientists today would say that Neuhaus's vision was the product of him confusing an inner voice for an outer voice. He was suffering the sort of mental illusion that sometimes befalls epileptics before a seizure.

Neuhaus took it the other way. While most people might use the science of life to demystify death, Neuhaus used death to mystify life.

When he wrote about his experience later, his great theme was the way death has a backward influence back onto life: "We are born to die. Not that death is the purpose of our being born, but we are born toward death, and in each of our lives the work of dying is already under way."

Neuhaus spent the next days, months and years impressed by the overwhelming fact of death. This made him, he writes, a bit blubbery. "After some time, I could shuffle the few blocks to the church and say Mass. At the altar, I cried a lot and hoped the people didn't notice. To think that I'm really here after all, I thought, at the altar, at the axis mundi, the center of life. And of death."

It also made him almost indifferent about when his life would end. People would tell him to fight for life and he would enjoy their attention, but the matter wasn't really in his hands, and everything was ready anyway.

He quoted John Donne who also was changed by a near-death experience: "Though I may have seniors, others may be elder than I, yet I have proceeded apace in a good university, and gone a great way in a little time, by the furtherance of a vehement fever."

Cancer returned, and Neuhaus died last week. In his final column for First Things, he wrote again about his mortality.

"Be assured that I neither fear to die nor refuse to live. If it is to die, all that has been is but a slight intimation of what is to be. If it is to live, there is much I hope to do in the interim."

This awareness of death, and of the intermingling of life and death, gave Neuhaus's writing an extra dimension — like a metaphysician who has been writing about nature within earth's atmosphere and suddenly discovers space.

Copyright 2009 The New York Times Company

 

--

"Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it."

 

--The Talmud

 

 

Where Did I Go?

Look. See. Who is that, there?

Silver reflections of who I was, then.

When I looked like, me, or what I thought was me.

See, past the wrinkles, drooping jowls, baldness, sadness.

Way back then, way past forgotten memories,

Glum glimmers of almost beauty, almost hope, way back

To naivety, back in among the fears, the grave, puzzled, perplexed

Apprehension of long-ago youth.

I almost forget those days, but then, like now,

I remember

That I have forgotten so much when

 I see

That look.

The reflection, the silver reflection, looking at me, pleading,

Where did I go, where was the intersection on that lonely

Country road when I took the other path, the path

Curved, and bent, that lent shadows to such a bright day?

That led me away to somewhere else, a different me,

A stranger somehow, now looking out

From the mirror, my mirror, of

Who I was, where I was going, then, finally, finding me

Here?

When.

When a stranger looks at me and says,

“I have a tumor on my brain.”

When a friend cries, looking up from his bed,

“I will not see you again.”

When my doctor whispers to me from the operating table,

“We’ll have to see. Your prognosis is debatable.”

Only then do I begin my long inward journey into innermost

Dread, realizing I, too, must learn for myself what

It means for me, to be finally, permanently dead.

 

I’ve lived a long time, longer than most, been a host

To the terrors and triumphs, greedily eating my days

As if my cupboard overflowed, not realizing that one day

I would peer in and see dust and ashes of an emptiness

I only dreamed, riding nightmares of  denied finality.

 

But life, indeed, is real. And death, as well. One often comes to

A stop, before we learn how to really count this instant,

This minute, this day; not just the birthdays, not plan someday

To live, to be happy, to become a hero, to be remembered. 

But to live, now, now, now in this chaos of not knowing.

 

Do it, now. This instant. Be here, be present, ready to

Realize this one moment, this one hour, this one beautiful,

Bountiful day. This is

All there is. And this is

Enough.

 

So, when the doctor finally calls, and says,

“I’m happy to report that your prognosis is

Fine. You are

Clear. There is no

Cancer. No cancer. No cancer. You will

Live.”        

 

Now I can give myself the permission which I have never given

Myself. Yes, I can be alive. I can be the

Person who I always wanted to be. I am. I am

Me. Now. And that is good enough.

 

Time did not stop. It need not stop

Now. Maybe now I can finally begin

Living. I do have enough time, even if it is a just

A moment more. This is my only chore. To live,

Now.

 

When I look at myself again.

When I ask myself, “Do I have enough

Time? 

Am I good enough, just

As I am?

         Do you love me? Do I

                  Love me?

         Am I

                  Happy?

         Am I

                   Enough?

 

         Will I Reply:

                  “Just enough ?”

 

No.

“More than

Enough;

 

         Now.”

          * * * 

Denying The Inevitable

         “The hair on my head is leaving me, turning white with fear,

abandoning me bald and bereft, like rats on a sinking ship.”

 

Do I sound depressed, distraught, uncharacteristically negative? Probably. This is the day of the dreaded prostate biopsy; revelation and consequences, the lady or the tiger. The moment of truth.

We all expect to live forever, to deny the death that happens to other less fortunate folks. We will remain healthy, happy, pain-free, free from John Wayne’s “the Big ‘C’, the unmentionable, sly, evasive, nasty little bit of metastasizing catastrophe which people whisper about with averted eyes, and which fills the local newspaper’s obituary page with little paragraphs and out-of-date photos of lost strangers’ ragged endings of life.

But for me, dear Horatio, I was expecting a happier ending to my play, this dizzying performance under the spotlights, in spite of the man behind the scrim whispering “elevated PSL’s”. How will this drama play out on the operating table today? Will the hero have a happy-ever-after epilogue? Will there be another act? And for how long? And what does it all mean anyway?

 

                  * * *

An 8AM Wake-Up Call

         Eight oh two on a Monday morning. Should have been up at 6:30, 7:30, but, what the hell, you’re only old once. Having sweet comfort time with my wife, not quite awake, I let the answering machine pick up.

         Later, satisfied and ready for the day, I check my messages. My primary doctor’s assistant has called, telling me that my PSA blood test, part of my annual physical at age 75, has indicated higher than normal levels.

         What does this mean? A false positive, which is possible, meaning I can go on with my life, hoping to beat my not-very-enlightened Dad who died at ninety three. I can do better than that, can ‘t I? But, if it’s serious, what then? Prostate cancer, a horrible end of life with chemo and other awful cures which never cure but just prolong the pain and distress and angst for us unfortunates who don’t believe in a jolly old Father who is going to give us a big smooch and sit us on his right hand next to another unfortunate Son.

         What do I do now? My urologist, who is so busy with other unfortunates who may or may not have received a false positive or the dreaded positive/positive, he won’t see me in weeks. What do I do now, in the mean time, the in-between time, and every minute until then, whenever that is, when he declares in his coolly objective scientific apotheosis, whether I live more precious years to learn what life is all about, or I die, not knowing , not living fully, joyfully, to a better ultimate, more romantic finality.

         Which, of course, is my plan, so I can continue to tell you how a Diary of a Dying Man should be written. After all, this “life” should be more dramatic, more measured, more literary. Isn’t that what our golden old age, the ideal older, better last part of life, should be? Shouldn’t we at least deserve that, after all we have gone through?

Who Do We Think We Are?

“We shall not cease from exploration

         And the end of all our exploring

         Will be to arrive where we started

         And know the place for the first time.

         Through the unknown, remembered gate

         When the last of earth left to discover

         Is that which was the beginning –

         And all shall be well and

         All manner of things shall be well

         When the tongues of flame are in-folded

         Into the crowned knot of fire

         And the fire and the rose are one.

                  T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding V

 

         Five percent of all the world’s wildlife lives on the island of Madagascar. Eighty percent of that wildlife is unique to this island that was separated from Africa and India hundreds of millions of years ago. Many of these most beautiful, exotic, wonderful, colorful creatures -- mammals, insects, reptiles, and birds   -- may become extinct in the next ten or twenty years because of human encroachment of their precious and equally rare habitat.

We humans, uniquely self-referential, so sophisticated and self-important, feel justified in over-running and over-consuming, causing other species to become extinct; we do it repeatedly without a second thought. In reality, we have no more intelligence and ability to achieve great things than the graceful fish who find their way back to their  river spawning grounds after years at sea, or the tiny hummingbirds that winter thousands of miles away from their summer homes, then return again and again.

         As I search for the answer to why we, the human species, are here, I have come to a realization: we humans are a biological anomaly.        

We humans think that we were created by a God in his own image, destined to have dominion over all the earth. And look at the mess we have made of it!

          This forces a thinking person to realize that no omniscient God would be so thoughtless to put humans in charge of this earth, and observe them doing such a terrible job of caring for it. In my adventure to learn who I am and why I am here, I  am forced to realize that not only is there no God, but also humans are not any more intelligent than any other creature. What animal would mess up its own nest to the point of bringing on its own extinction? Perhaps that extinction would be a great relief to the remaining creatures on this tortured planet, who have still managed to survive our self-absorbed, drunken, brainless, trashing of our Earth.

         We are indeed a biological anomaly. We have evolved by growing a large, very sophisticated brain which allows us to do many mechanical tasks, but we have not evolved one whit from our most ancient beginnings in regard to morality, compassion and sharing.

All I can do in my advanced age is to try to not make a bigger mess than I already have. I pledge, in my final years, to do as little harm as possible. 

6/2/08 Diary of a Dying Man

The Existential Alternative?

Existentialism, as defined by Bertrand Russell, philosopher and mathematician, postulates “That Man is the product of causes which had no provision of the end they were achieving … the whole temple of Man’s achievement must inevitably be buried beneath debris of a universe in ruins … only on the firm foundation of unyielding despair, can the soul’s habitation henceforth be safely built.”

Can I find reasons in my own life to create an opposing philosophy to this very popular existential stance – a philosophy not of despair, but of hope; not a dead end of resignation, but an avenue for a new adventure in life and death? The God-based myths of Christianity and other major world religions, and the pantheons of ancient Greece and even present day India, hold little value in our modern scientifically intelligent world.

So, what else can there be in our history of myths and revelations that can try to explain who we are and why we’re here?

In my explorations, I have recently discovered the beginning of a new myth system, a myth created not by story-teller historians and desert-crazed prophets, but by modern-day scientists. A book, “The View from the Center of the Universe,” by Joel R. Primack and Nancy Ellen Abrams, propose a new way to find our own heaven, right here, right now.

Their definition of the concept of “God” is represented by our physical universe, which is ever-expanding; we, and everything else, are in the inside, in the middle of it all, expanding with it. “God” represents the dynamic directions of our earthly wonder, not the ancient destination of a fragile hope and fear-based heaven.

As our universal “God” expands, our understanding also deepens at all levels, just as we understand gravity though Einstein’s discoveries. Therefore, “God” is nothing less than the process of opening up our personal lives into developing lines of contact with the unknown potential of the universe. We, as humans, now have evolved into the understanding that we can, and must, find harmony with the real universe of which we are an integral part.

We must create a philosophy opposing the philosophy of existentialism; not registering futility, but knowing hope; not accepting pre-ordained suffering, but expecting excitement and promise.

By beginning to celebrate the reality of ourselves and our expanding universe, and by resetting our mental focus into harmony with it, we may realize the greatest opportunity of our time and all time. The choice between existential woe and a meaningful world view is open to us. We owe it to those who come after us to protect our own fragile environment, our little part of the universe, where everything is interconnected, where it is a fact of life and death that we are all dependent upon each other. We are made of the same stardust as is every star and planet in this amazing expanding universe. We either expand our thinking, our sense of morality and responsibility to everyone and everything, or by the laws of chaos and evolution, we die and the universe continues without us.

In the ever-lessening moments I have left on this wonderful earth, I vow to work at creating within myself and, acting in accordance with, this new myth of “God” as universe. This is an authentic spiritual imperative –- a new, renewing myth created by the proven facts of science which I intend to nurture and support – a universal heritage which is within myself and every person, creature, plant and planet that surrounds me.