On Dying

I've been thinking a lot about death lately. I know that sounds a little bit morbid, but one does think about death often when that's what's going on around oneself.

Last week, my aunt's partner's mom, Inez, died age 90. While I didn't make it to the memorial service (at the explicit pardon of my aunt and her partner) my mom reported that it was an "awesome" affair-- the room was packed to standing with people who loved and admired Inez. There was a memorial table of photos, remembrance cards, etc. Attendees could also pick up a lucky quarter to put in the slot machine next time they were at a casino-- Inez loved to gamble, and, when in Michigan, often visited the Soaring Eagle Casino right here in Mt. Pleasant.

My favorite memory of Inez is from this past summer, when Andrew, Evan, and I visited for a weekend. Evan had been resolutely refusing to have his poopy diaper changed. I tried coaxing, bribing-- everything short of stabbing him with a tranquilizer. Inez witnessed all this drama and said to Evan, very clearly and sternly, "Evan, lay down." There was no confusion about what she expected him to do. He looked at her, and then he looked at me, like, "I don't know who this lady is, but something tells me I better do what she says." He laid down without protest; the diaper was changed; and I finally had an effective model on how to communicate with a toddler. It's actually made a lot of difference in how I handle Evan when he's being difficult (which, thankfully, isn't all that often).

At present, my paternal grandfather is in a nursing home, resolutely refusing additional medical support that would prolong his life. He is not on pain medicine or on a ventilator. His hearing is pretty OK and his mind is still pretty sharp-- but his major organs are functioning at about 10-15%. My family is in full support of my grandpa's decision: we understand, that at the age of 88, having outlived two wives, that the man has lived a full and reasonably happy life. The doctors have given him 2-4 months to live-- a grim timeline, at best. But my family is prepping themselves for his passing, in both the physical and mental sense. My sister Angela, for example, has plans to play cards with him next week. He's going to teach her how to play pinochle. My mom and dad have been making sure that my grandpa has everything he wants or needs-- Spearmint gum, his shaving kit, etc. I suppose we think it a comfort to my grandpa to know that he was cared for in this world while he's on his way to the next.

When dying takes a long time, it seems to give people a different perspective on life. My grandpa recently told my sister he wished he would've spent more time with my Evan. This came as a bit of a surprise to me, because growing up we weren't particularly close to my grandfather-- he didn't live nearby--we saw him mostly at major holidays; and when he remarried, he inherited a slew of step grandkids, who we saw once a year at a family picnic. I guess what I'm saying is that while he didn't really influence or shape my upbringing, his actions did show that he cared for us-- he never forgot my birthday, for example, the card and a gift of money always arrived early or right on time. That in itself means something; and for me, that's enough.

I don't think dying is the point in life where one should feel guilty for what one didn't do or didn't accomplish. I don't think it's the time to seriously evaluate your actions in life-- or to regret things. Rather, I think a long time dying is a life lesson about how important it is to be fully present in the present... to be 100% aware that any time spent is well-spent.