My mother died earlier this month, and I’ve been very sad about that. I’ve also spent a good bit of time since then thinking deeply about life and death. As people have expressed their condolences in various ways, I’ve especially been thinking about how we talk about death, and I wanted to put something on the record.
Despite all of life’s challenges and pain, I enjoy being alive and would like to remain so as long as possible. I have every hope and expectation of living to a ripe old age. I’m healthy and fit; I eat well, exercise, and avoid risky activities. I practice tai chi and qigong. And I live in a country with free health care! I think my odds are good. Off the top of my head, I imagine that once I get to, say, 113 or so, I’ll be pretty much ready to wrap things up. That will give me time to plan and pull off an elaborate eleventy-first birthday party for myself, disappear mysteriously, and head off on one last adventure.
Nevertheless, anything can happen, and the end of my life could be sooner than I would prefer. Statistically speaking, based on the historical records of all human beings ever, my chances of avoiding death are (double-checks calculations) zero. And that’s OK. Whether I survive for many more decades or get hit by the proverbial bus tomorrow, I can say that I’ve had a good life. I’ve appreciated my time here on Earth, and I always knew it would be finite.
I hope that when the time comes, my friends, family members, and anyone else who knows or knows of me and has occasion to remark on my death will honor my memory by referring to me, and to the end of my life, truthfully. Specifically:
- Tell it like it is. The appropriate way to speak about someone no longer living is to use the words die, died, dead, and death. Deceased is marginally OK if you’re really that squeamish about the others. Please, I implore you, do not say that I have “passed,” not even with adverbs like “away,” “on,” or “over.” Dying is not relocating one’s consciousness from inside the body to some other material or spiritual coordinates. Dead means dead. Euphemisms for death—there must be thousands of them—are all ways to talk around it, to avoid using the actual D words. Call death what it is. Or, at the very least, call my death what it is.
- Above all, don’t say I’m “in a better place” or any of the numerous other expressions to that effect implying an afterlife. When I’m dead, I won’t be anywhere. My body will be merely a clump of rapidly decaying organic matter, and my mind, as an emergent property of my now-nonfunctional brain, will have ceased to exist. There will no longer be any me to be anywhere.
- Don’t talk to me. Seriously, just don’t. Not at my funeral or memorial service, not at my gravestone (if I have one, which I expect not to), not in online posts or articles or whatnot. Per the previous point, I won’t exist anymore—on this plane or any other. There will be no me to hear you. Don’t say, “I miss you, Joe.” Say, “I miss Joe.” (I mean, if you do, which I hope you will.) Don’t say, “You bastard, you still owe me twenty bucks.” Say, “Looks like I’ve made a $20 donation to my late friend’s estate.” Thanks, by the way.
- On the other hand, if there’s something you’d like to say to me—something you would regret not having said if I died before you got around to it—I’m just going to throw out this crazy idea: say it to me now, while I’m still non-dead. And that applies not only to me, of course! Anything you have to say to anyone, say it while they can still hear you.
- Don’t say (or write) R.I.P. Whether you’re intending the Latin requiescat in pace or the English rest in peace, don’t. First of all, death isn’t rest. It’s death (per point one). Second, who are you saying this to? There will be no me (per point two) to follow the instruction to rest in peace. Is it really that hard to write, “I’m sorry to hear that Joe died”? I’d like to think I was worth that handful of extra taps or keystrokes.
My friends, all these things are rooted in superstition, mythology, or both. If you know anything about me, you know that I take reality seriously and reject superstition. I think the world would be a better place if everyone else did the same. If you must perpetuate the bizarre idea that dead people still somehow exist, leave me out of it.
What you can do, however, is:
- Feel sad. You know how everyone says, “Life goes on”? Screw that. It obviously doesn’t go on for the dead person! If I mean something to you while I’m alive, you should take a really, really long time to get over your grief once I’ve died. Weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth, and rending of garments are all entirely appropriate. I do hope you become less sad over time, but that you still think about me, at least a little bit, every day. Of course I’d like for you to have happy memories of me, but it is right and good for you to feel sad when I am dead. Embrace that feeling and let it spur you to live a better life.
- Replace regret with action. Maybe you didn’t say that thing to me that you wanted to say, despite my reminding you to do so, and you feel regret when I’m dead. Well, don’t let yourself feel that about anyone else. Talk to the people who are important to you. Say what you have to say while you’re both still alive. But that’s not all. You probably have hopes and dreams and goals that will turn into regrets if you don’t do your best to achieve them while you can. So, redouble your efforts. You have one chance. Make it count.
- Name something cool after me. I’ve mentioned elsewhere that I don’t want my name to be turned into an adjective. However, as a way of keeping alive the good memories of anything positive or useful I’ve done, it would be lovely if someone were to name a delicious dessert, a library, or a beautiful piece of music after me. Or, you know, a really badass lizard species or something. Maybe not a disease, though, OK?
- Retell my stories. I don’t expect to have any significant money or possessions to leave behind. But I have lots of stories. And I don’t just mean stuff I’ve written for publication; I mean the stories I’m constantly telling about myself, my family, my friends, and people who weren’t so friendly. Stories about my past and present, and stories about what I hope for or fear in the future. When I tell others my stories, they’re usually edited, embellished, and tweaked to provoke a laugh, a tear, or some other emotional response. They’re close-enough approximations of the truth that, I hope, convey who I am and how I see the world, while giving listeners something to remember as they smile and nod. Stories—some true, some made-up, and most somewhere in-between—are pretty much the totality of my interior experience. I am my stories and my stories are me. So, continuing to share those stories, or at least your interpretation of them, is as close as I think you can get to keeping me alive forever.
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