The Responsibility of Surviving

I remember well a conversation I had with one of my heroes - my aunt Frieda in Berlin - about thirty years ago when she revealed to me that she had already outlived all of her family and most of her friends. I couldn't get the thought out of my mind that "surviving" was perhaps not the greatest thing in the world one could aspire to.  Intellectually, I understood the term "survivor's guilt" and was profoundly moved by the 1980 movie, Ordinary People, about a family of two sons in which one son dies in a boating accident and the other son goes mad with guilt about not being able to save him. But simply outliving everybody is a different story: there should be no guilt, in the normal course of things, about being lucky.

Trouble is, when you outlive everybody - or even most people - who mean anything you, it's not the guilt that plagues you; it's simple loneliness. You think of something, encounter something, that makes you want to share it with somebody - only to re-remember that they're not there anymore.

Bounce (left); Miki (right)

I have a dozen images of old friends on my computer desktop, following my conviction that the best way to approach bad news is to stare it down, and not run and hide from it.  I hear something new about Switzerland and want to contact Doris to confirm it.  She's there, a big broad smile on her face, among the dozen. And the same goes for all the others. I spend most of my time alone in my room at the computer, and chatting with these friends-gone-by happens a whole lot.  Twelve of these images are of people; one is of the all-time loves of my life, our dogs Miki and Bounce.  They lived to fourteen - not a bad age for chihuahuas, but their deaths are up there with the worst things I have ever experienced.

I learned many years ago that when people reported the death of a loved one that the very worst thing you could do is try to cheer them up, or try to make sense of the death.  Instead, the clichéd "Sorry for your loss," insincere as it sounds, was probably the best thing to say.  And then shut up and say no more.  But it has always been hard for me to keep my mouth shut. I live by and for words. I use language to explain, to work out dilemmas, to comfort, to provoke, to uplift.  I want terribly to say something like, "You know that pain that you are feeling tends to come in direct proportion to the love you feel for that person."  It sounds true, and most probably is.

I am now 85 and people are dropping all around me. I now get to experience what Tante Frieda went through on a daily basis. And it's not just that I miss those who have died; I worry about being a drag with others in my life still here because talking about death and dying is, if not an outright taboo, at least a terrible downer.  

I remember hearing the Dalai Lama, when asked what he intended to do now that he was retiring, answer, calmly and with his usual warm charm, "I intend to spend the rest of my time preparing for my death."

Bravo, DL, I said.  Not afraid to demonstrate how one brings death into one's life and takes it in stride.  I joined a group called Death Café that meets every couple of months to talk about death and dying to break down this hypersensitivity around the topic.  It's not for everybody, and I fully sympathize with young people who want to avoid thoughts of end times before it would appear to be a useful thing to do, but I find it enriching to share with total strangers something this intimate.

Speaking of the Dalai Lama...  He's another hero of mine, right up there with Tante Frieda.  You know the couplet saying, "There are only two rules you need to follow in life.  One is 'Don't sweat the small stuff" and the other is 'Remember, it's all small stuff.'"  Well, the Dalai Lama has one I think is as wise: "Be kind whenever possible." and "It's always possible."

So why am I talking about death and dying suddenly? Well, one reason is it's on my mind a lot. Another is it disciplines and focuses the mind, helps you get your priorities straight.  Shows you how temporary the reward is for being able to score a good put-down and how much value there is in being kind.

A third reason is a video I just came across which I found quite moving.  Of someone reading a love letter a man writes to his dead wife. I want to share it with you here.

May you live long and prosper.  And may you live among kind folk.