On Death and Dying
On October 10th I suffered the hardest blow of my life: the love of that life and my friend for 60 years, Joanne “Joey” Cain, succumbed to a miserable, fatal, incurable disease, carcinoid syndrome. We were married for 54 of those years. I’m learning things about grief that I never learned from the deaths of my grandparents and parents. I’ve discovered three distinct aspects: sadness for Joey’s suffering and undesired demise; my own loneliness and self-pity; and, toughest of all, regret.
Yesterday I chatted with an 86-year-old crossing guard named Geraldine, who lost her husband six months ago. She told me often thinks of the things she wishes she’d said to him. I have no such problem. I told Joey that I loved her every single day. I was holding her hand and saying, “I love you,” as she drew her last breath. No, my regrets run to whether we should have recognized the imminent, existential threat posed at the critical stage of her illness, and defended against it more aggressively, earlier this year, while she was still strong and vital. Both Joey and I could have done better. My grief will always include a sense of guilt in that regard. Could more aggressive treatment sooner have won her an extra year or two? We’ll never know. (BTW, there is plenty of blame all around, including a doctor or two or three.)
I met with our GP yesterday. He speculated that we Americans take death harder than our European and South American counterparts among his patients. He believes that this is because our lives are relatively better and we grip life tighter. Maybe so. I think our loss of faith is the larger reason. When Joey and I went off to college, we left Catholicism behind. I would love now believe that Joey is in heaven and that I’ll join her there someday. I hope that’s true, but I can’t believe it is.
As I’ve written in another recent Blog, I believe that when the plug is pulled, the energy we enjoyed goes back into the universe’s total store of energy and our bodies return their matter to the universe’s total store of matter and we are no more. If there is meaning to a human life, it is the contribution each of us makes, if any, to the species, homo sapiens. Humanity as a whole may indeed have a destiny. I have no doubt there is GOD. What GOD has in store for us, or expects of us, or hopes of us, I don’t know. But I do believe in the reality of humanity’s destiny.
The danger inherent in that belief is that it might seem at first glance to justify fascism, communism,,, in a word, totalitarianism. However, I am convinced that on closer scrutiny, we realize that democracy is the best form of government, not only for each individual, but for the race as whole. “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.” When each of us has these rights, we strive —- however selfishly or not —- to achieve that happiness. Cumulatively, we move humanity along its timeline toward its destiny… even if many of us don’t realize or intend it.
As for my grief, it has spurred me on to try to lead an exemplary life in honor of my lady love. It is motivating me to strive for excellence in my remaining life and work. And I have discovered, too, that my grief for Joey and me has, perhaps, yet a fourth component that has nothing to do with her death. It is the grief of an old man for the passing of those halcyon days when we were young lovers. Perhaps that’s why I chose her 1969 college graduation picture for her obituary. Time to me is an even greater mystery than space (which I don’t pretend to grasp at all). When a second goes by, is it gone forever? I fear that is so. As Paul Simon wrote, “Preserve your memories, They’re all that’s left you.” Not quite true. I have hundreds of photos, slides, letters, as well as hours of video to aid my memories. They help me to visit Joey in our shared past, while I strive to honor her memory in the future, however much of a future I’m allowed. I hope it’s enough to meaningfully culminate my modest contribution to humanity.
