Sean Thomas, March 2021
I always imagined I would be calm in the face of death. Death was not a concept that particularly bothered me. The nature of my death did. For example, I did not like the idea of drowning or death by violence. But prior knowledge of a relatively calm dying process did not seem to me to be something I should fear.
I worked as a radiographer for a few years from my late teens. During this time I observed people facing their mortality. Sometimes in slow motion through disease, sometimes abruptly following trauma. Some people seemed to be accepting, but most, particularly at first, were in shock or denial.
This prompted me to reflect on how I might deal with facing similar situations. My conclusion was if one’s imminent death was truly inescapable then acceptance would be the best thing. By all means, put up a fight if there is a fight to be had. But if the situation is more akin to stopping a tsunami with a roll of paper towels then maybe save your effort.
As the years passed I read books and articles about existentialism, evolution, physics, biology and psychology. As I gained a bigger picture of reality, and my absolute insignificance in the broader landscape became apparent, my concern about my own existence diminished. I became more confident I would be calm in the face of a gentle death. But of course, I could not be certain! I am sure many felt similarly only to find themselves despairing when confronted with news of their pending demise.
So what happened?
Well, not much actually. When shown the chest x-ray images by my family doctor it was immediately apparent the news was not good. I did not need to be told that having a mass that big in my chest was a very unfortunate thing. But I did not feel any emotions of note. There was still a chance it was a benign, survivable mass after all. So I sat in my car outside the medical practice and considered what to do. I decided to sit in my car until I had a new life plan, at least an interim one. I sent a text to my wife letting her know I would not be travelling for work the next day after all. I sent a text to a friend who knew I was getting some results. I had my new plan. My life focus would now be on making the ensuing process as easy for my wife and family as I could. I was happy, I needed a plan. I upgraded my lunch to some fresh salmon on buns, headed home, ate and thought things through.
The next two days were a bit of a roller coaster. I had a CT scan of my chest which confirmed the severity of the situation. In all likelihood, I was going to die. I unexpectedly did a reasonable demonstration of dying in that first week. It transpired that I was having cardiac issues along with breathing issues. So in the span of seven days, I had gone from rather healthy, to my diagnosis, to gasping on the lounge floor waiting for an ambulance, while unsuccessfully trying to say goodbye to my distraught wife.
I find talking about the impact of my death on my wife and family distressing. This is the one topic that will bring tears to my eyes. I don’t want to cause them emotional pain and suffering, yet there is nothing I can do to avoid this. All I can do is make the process as palatable as possible.
So what could I do?
There were simple, pragmatic things. Like sorting through my possessions, tax, companies, superannuation and general commitments. I built a coffin. There were plenty of materials in the shed from earlier boat building projects. I wrote up notes for my funeral service and tapped some friends to help out.
The most important thing I could do was to be happy. Dying is bad enough, being miserable about it was a load too heavy for me to bear. I coined a phrase to communicate my position, “I’m not happy to die, but will die happy.” If I only had myself to worry about, or only considered my own perspective, maybe I would have been unhappy. Maybe I would have been resentful about dying in my fifties with so many projects afoot and plans for the future. If being miserable and unhappy would help my wife and family then maybe I might have given it a go. It was clear though, my being miserable brought nothing to the party.
There is plenty for me to be appreciative of. My wife, family and friends have been very supportive. Although my ability to walk or do physical things is greatly diminished I can still look after myself around the house. I still enjoy eating. The pain is manageable. Bodily functions are still functioning. I can think and write. I have had time to organise my affairs, say my goodbyes and achieve some small things. I have even managed to write a novel for young adults. It could have been very much worse.
At the time of writing all treatment for my cancer has ceased. I am under palliative care. I describe my current situation as deathward.
Some funny things have happened along the way. Things I was not expecting. I noticed one day that when thinking about the future I was no longer in it. I imagined family holidays, but I was not present. I imagined doing things I love, like sailing my boat, but someone else was sailing it. Weird.
It has become apparent my perspective regarding my death has surprised some people. I have had many people tell me things along the line of, “I know how you feel. You must be devastated.” It is hard to know what to say and I am sure I have said unhelpful things at times. But I want others to know that I am okay about dying. Not happy about it, okay about it.
Death is certain. The timing of my death is a surprise and an inconvenience, but the fact I will die is not. I speculate that for some, being presented with the knowledge of imminent death means confronting the very idea of death. It is not just the timing they must find peace with, but the very idea they were going to die.
Denying one’s mortality is a very natural thing to do. However, modern life allows us to push confronting our mortality way over the horizon. We can eat all manner of animals without ever having to kill, pluck, gut or skin one. We can wipe, flush and clean away all evidence of our biological functions. We can cover our more overtly animal parts in all manner of distractive clothing. We can mask our animal smells and blemishes with the most astonishing range of products. We can have body hair (that animal give-away), plucked, shaved or blasted off with lasers. We can even be surgically renovated to look more youthful, less real and somehow to have stepped backwards on our deathward path. Humans go to extraordinary lengths to hide from one another what is blatantly obvious - we are animals and we are mortal.
I became comfortable with my mortality and being an animal a very long time ago. I don’t dye my hair, wear flash clothes (my wife and daughters wish I did!), or stress about turning thirty, forty or fifty. When my own death became imminent I did not need to confront the fact I was going to die, it was only the inconvenient timing I needed to deal with.
Acceptance came easily for me. I have not had a moment of anguish, despair or anger about being terminally unwell since my diagnosis. I found acceptance in the five minutes I spent in the car park outside my family doctor’s medical practice and it has not left me. I have shed many tears when thinking about my wife and family. I will cause them pain and I am powerless to free them from this.
The last remaining challenge for me is to make the decision for when to let go. To stop setting myself little goals, liking mowing the small patch of grass under the clothesline. To accept the comforting embrace of morphine. I am not there yet.
I am not fighting my cancer or my death. It is a dance, not a fight. My cancer is part of me, it will die with me. We are partners in a destructive relationship.
There is a short poem on my beautifully painted coffin (thank you, Mike!) I wrote the poem to try and succinctly capture my perspective. This is that poem.
Death came
I smiled
Death smiled
We embraced