Yes, there is death in this business of whaling - a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.
Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (Ch. VII)
The subject of death has shadowed me lately – not my own, but death more generally. Several acquaintances have recently died or are dying. As I get older, that seems to happen more frequently. It’s a universal human question – and therefore a quintessential liberal arts question: what does death mean? How should we face it?
One reason I’m having morbid thoughts is because I recently saw the movie “The Room Next Door,” and thought it was very good. Essentially, it’s a story about a dying woman (played by Tilda Swinton) who chooses to die on her own terms, and her friend (Julianne Moore) whom she recruits to help her through the passage. Moore’s character is initially deeply reluctant, but eventually she comes around to sharing the main character’s view that life is beautiful but not an absolute value, especially when you’re dying of cancer.
My own brother was another example of an assisted suicide, after months of (seemingly needless) suffering with an even more debilitating disease, ALS. In fact, ALS is one of three diseases (along with nuclear palsy and Lewy Body Disease) that rob the afflicted person of the capacity to end their own life without help. I only wish he had chosen to leave the world sooner and spared himself some of that suffering.
My only quibble with “The Room Next Door” – and maybe it’s a trivial or irrelevant one – is that its message seems so obvious: one can choose to die on one’s own terms, rather than on nature’s terms, and that is a good thing. Society should support it. It saddens me to think that we still need to learn that. The ignorance, if not cruelty, of the cultural bias toward fighting death to the end, saddens me. It strikes me as fundamentally anti-life. But watching the film, I thought I was in the 1970s.
Speaking of the 70s, I thought of these questions again a few weeks later when I read a book called “Overcoming the Fear of Death” written in 1970 by David Cole Gordon. Gordon’s book has some useful things to say about life, which I can’t recall at the moment. About death, not so much. In fact, I found a lot of it to be drivel. (Gordon was a lawyer with some – but seemingly not enough -- psychological training.) When I read a book, I tend to argue with the author. Sometimes a lot, sometimes a little. But I regard reading critically as a minimal form of respect. So here is a highly adumbrated and selective version of my thoughts upon reading Gordon.
First, I believe that life after death is exactly like life-before-birth, which is to say, a big nothing. Feel free to disagree, but that’s where I stand on the nature of my non-existence. Second, the older I get the more I enjoy (or at least value, even if I don’t enjoy them as actively) the things and people I love. I enjoy my grandchildren actively, because they leave me no choice: they are very active. As I become conscious of time’s shrinkage in my personal future, the good things become more important, even if they don’t get more plentiful. As the body begins to decay, I only occasionally catch myself wistfully wishing I were thirty again.
Where’s the upside to such nostalgia? It’s not like remembering a wonderful dream, or a great read or musical experience or human relationship, which sustains you beyond the moment or span of the experience. It’s more like: Well, I could have done this or that yoga move when I was young, but I didn’t, and now it’s too late. But yoga still helps. I suppose it’s as simple as this: with age, I spend more time thinking about life’s pleasures and less about its trials. That’s what I shoot for anyway. I’m an expert procrastinator, and a fairly accomplished denialist, which helps with the trials.
A third, related view I hold is that life and death are somewhat commutative. By that I mean, worrying about death – whether or not you are sick – is not a net positive. Our thoughts about death affect our lives, just as how we live affects how we die. I worry about dying in an unpleasant way, and I consider that a legitimate fear; but dying is a process, and death is a state. Worrying about being in the state of death (especially having written my most recent book) is a non-starter.
I can understand someone saying: I have unmet goals and need more time. And I can understand them saying: I love life, and thus I want to live a longer life, not a shorter one. Those are valid choices, but they are not mine. I may have few good years left, but I’ve done what I could – and had the good fortune to make my life more or less fully my own. That is a rare gift, especially given the universal circumstances of not choosing when to be born, where, or by whom. I have reached the state in which I can prefer quality over quantity, should they come into conflict. And right now, I emphatically prefer quality. Even though I love watching my grandchildren grow.
I know that we all cling to life, and that’s not wrong – it’s an innate human trait. Maybe I’ll fight to stay alive to my last breath, but I hope not. If I can no longer read or watch baseball, or talk to my friends and family, it’s lights out, and thanks to my parents for inviting me to the party.