Starry Night: My Thoughts on Death

There is a preacher for every intelligence level.  On the feeble fringe of the bell curve you’ve got the droolers watching Pastor Benny Hinn on cable TV perform his forehead-shoving healing miracles. Toward the other end of the believer IQ spectrum you’ve got well-groomed men who can tie a real tie and confident women capable of dividing 60 by 4 without a calculator or paper and pencil. In church these second class of folk hear, in passing, about the miracles that occurred back then . . . in another time and place, or, in other words, out of the range of what can be verified. Their spiritual leader talks about themes relevant to today: loving thy neighbor, setting a good example for thy children, etc.

On one pole you’ve got folks praying to win the big power ball drawing in this life. On the other pole are generally better educated and more affluent people who know, on some level, it is futile to ask their god for a specific favor today. And so they go to church and read their dusty Bible and perhaps lead Saltine cracker lives because their toast points and caviar will arrive many tomorrows later–when they close their eyes for a final time.

One of my aunts spent her last years in a nursing home. Throughout life she had a personality that was half kindness, half spitfire. Her good cheer stayed with her to the end. Pretty much. Some might say that she remained relatively upbeat because she knew, as she herself repeated, that she was “going to a better place.” In my aunt’s case, the literal interpretation of her words was absolutely true. Most cemeteries are far more beautiful, cheery, and peaceful than your average intensive care unit or nursing home.

Sometimes, when envisioning my last moments, I think it would be nice to have a little bit o’ religion. On the verge of the big good-bye, while other people can think “Jesus is waiting” (with open arms rather than a dope slap), what will I do? A Porky Pig imitation? Th-th-th-that’s all folks! Will I squeeze my wife’s hand, smile a sad smile, and tell her, again, how much I love her and have loved her and enjoyed our life together?

For those who cherish life, death sucks. There is no denying it. Why try? Oh sure, we can rationalize that without death, life would be meaningless and good parking spots even harder to come by. But the tough truth consists not of the fact of death alone, but also of the value we place on life. If we didn’t care about life, what would death matter? It’s a question of cognitive dissonance: of holding two conflicting perceptions in your mind at once. Without the two–both the love of life and the finality of personal death–no discomfort would arise. Normally, people resort to a number of strategies, conscious or unconscious, to deal with the discomfort cognitive dissonance brings. They deny; they lie; they distract themselves; they suck on their thumb and wait for the conflict to slip from their mind.

What do you do?

I suppose I could ease my own cognitive dissonance by de-valuing life, by convincing myself that life is shit, so why be bothered with the fact I will one day lose it. Or maybe I could deny that death will be the end of me. No death, no loss of all I value. But it seems to me that imagining a heavenly-life end-run around death might, beyond the possible reduction of death-bed discomfort, cause problems years before. By believing in a more important next life, the value of this life gets down-graded from first class to economy. Compared to an eternity in heaven, what is a bunch of decades on earth worth? Next to unending paradise, why get worked up over roughly seven dozen rides around the sun on a spinning planet?  Worse yet, with a better life waiting, a person may be more willing to squander his or her life on earth. And perhaps the lives of others.

Imagine three people standing on the deck of the sinking Titanic. All life boats have been dispatched. As if descending slowly downward in an elevator without walls, the freezing ocean waters rise. There is no way out; death is certain. One person paces back and forth. He screams frantically into the wind, No, no, no! This is not fair! I can’t die! It isn’t right! The second person takes a seat on the tilting floor. He believes that after the cold waters have caused his heart to stop beating he will be plucked from this world into a next. Yes, he’s apprehensive about the suffering he may endure, but his god awaits. The third stands, hands to the railing. He watches his frosty breath drift over black waves toward a distant darkness punctuated by stars.  Although he does not protest the coming of his final night, neither does he abandon his love and appreciation for the great opportunity he had. When to his neck in frigid water, he marvels at the taste of salt spray, the weight of clothing, the buoyancy of flesh.

I aim to be the third person. Sure, my inner pacing man will undoubtedly be there too, at least in the background of my mind. But with sufficient emotional maturity I can keep his cries from distracting me, of subtracting from those final precious moments as they count down to none.

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