My girlfriend Lauren says I talk about death too much. She’s probably right. In any case, she has asked me to turn the page and write about something cheerful, such as the price of groceries once Trump has left for the next world where he will get his just inedible desserts. When I attempt some humor on my favorite subject, using the marvels of AI to send her how I now long to die, she was not amused:
Well, she’s right of course. I have been writing about death or NDEs for half my life. Enough already! But not just yet. I need to take one last whack at it before I call it quits.
You see, now that I’ve turned 90, as of last December, my health seems to have cratered. Every morning for the past few weeks, I generally wake up with severe neck pain that takes hours to resolve despite multiple icings and loads of Advil. I usually spend about six hours before I can do anything but kvetch. I am not having fun! I have joked for years that my body has expired before I have, but I’m getting tired of this joke. It doesn’t seem funny anymore.
Recently, I came across a really interesting article in The New Yorker Online. It was written by one of The New Yorker’s veteran art critics, Calvin Tomkins, who turned 100 on December 17th, four days after I myself became a nonagenarian. Tomkins had kept a journal during his 99th year. OMG, could I relate! He could have been describing me. But he was lucky to have a relatively young wife to look after him like a consoling angel. But I’m mostly on my own here, aside from my wonderful caregivers, but they can only spare a few hours for me once or twice a week. Lauren can visit me sometimes, but not that often any longer. I try to keep my spirits up and my humor intact, but these days I feel I am only one short step from calamity should I fall on my ever weaker and unsteady legs. That would surely be the end for me, but it’s obviously not the way I’d prefer to exit left.
One of the things I do to try to keep these dark thoughts from intruding into what’s left of my mind is to read. Lately, I’ve been reading three books. But even then….
The first sentence in the book reads as follows: "Mitigating the risk of extinction from AI should be a global priority alongside other societal-scale risks such as pandemics and nuclear war."
Even early in 2023, hundreds of AI scientists signed an open letter with just that single sentence. I’m only about a third of the way through the book now, but it’s truly scary. I just hope I can finish it.
But you see what I mean: Even when I try to escape from my own yearning to die, I come across a book like this!
But reading this book was still quite a revelation to me. I never was quite so aware of how much these artists suffered and what personal hardships and tragedies most of them had to endure. You probably know – but just in case you don’t – the term, impressionists, was in its day derogatory. Most of these artists experienced lives of grievous losses and anguished conflicts, and my hero, Manet, who had contracted syphilis, ended up paralyzed before he died, aged fifty. It was almost unbearable for me to read about his death once more.
I dunno. It just seems to be my fate to encounter death wherever I turn these days. I think I’m suffering from an incurable psychiatric affliction, death envy. I think of my father, Phil, another artist like Manet who died young, barely into his forties. I have a photograph of him sitting on my desk in my office. When I talk to him, and I do, I say, "Dad, you don’t know lucky you were. I’m still here, waiting to join you, but I don’t seem to have the knack."
Nevertheless, I know – at least intellectually – that one of these days as I sit in the vestibule reserved for those bound for death waiting for my number to be called, my time will indeed be up. I will then have to keep my appointment with a guy named Charon to ferry me over the River Styx.
Even so, according to Freud, we can think about death, but cannot actually psychologically imagine our own personal extinction. That’s true for me.
Many people have asked me how, in view of my research on NDEs, I think about my own death. Frankly, I really don’t give it much thought. I’m like most people. I’d rather change the subject. Here, I agree with that great philosopher, Woody Allen, who quipped: "I’m not afraid of death. I just don’t want to be there when it happens." Touché, Woody.
But lately, I confess, I’ve been forced by circumstances, if not by volition, to confront the inevitable. [Lauren, you had better stop reading at this point.] I can now feel the shadow of death getting closer and I can no longer ignore it.
Contemplating My Own Death
I may be wrong – I’ve been wrong before – but I have the feeling I won’t be living much longer. I’ve imagined that I might succumb to death sometime over the winter. So I’ve begun to prepare for it in various ways.
For example, I’ve started to disconnect from many of my friends and some of my professional colleagues by writing them, in effect, letters of farewell, and in some cases, sending them gifts. I’ve advised people who usually write me for my birthday not to do so next year when I would be 91 (not a prime, by the way, but it is made up of two primes: 7 X 13), because I’m sure I will no longer be here by then.
I’m starting to let go. Thinking about my demise has, however, made me reflective. The other day, for instance, it occurred to me how lucky I have been in my life. Consider: Aside from an appendectomy when I was twenty-seven, I have never had to be hospitalized or had an operation. I have never broken a bone. Despite my poor vision, I have never been in an auto accident, and despite my clumsiness, I haven’t never fallen off a ladder. More remarkable still, I have reached the age of 90 without ever having a serious disease. How many gents my age could say the same? The gods have obviously blessed a fool like me.
Recently, as I have mentioned, I celebrated my 90th birthday. I received scores of well wishes from all over the world. Most people wrote briefly, but some wrote me lovely and touching tributes, as if to bid me goodbye. And my three wonderful children gave me the best birthday gift I have ever received: they listed 90 things they loved about me. Many were humorous, but some were very heartfelt. Most brought smiles to my face; some, tears.
I could go on, but won’t except to say that in recent months, as I prepare for death, I have been filled with gratitude for all the love I have received in my life. I have been showered by blessings galore.
But, still, I am not exactly looking forward to death. Well, to be accurate, I’m okay with death; it’s the dying part I’m not keen on.
Few of us can die like the Scottish philosopher (and atheist), David Hume, with incredibly good humor and laughter or like the poet, William Blake, who died singing with joy for God’s goodness.
Who knows what kind of death is in store for me? You can see why Woody Allen’s quip is so apposite. Who looks forward to being present at one’s own death?
But even once I make it into the house of death, I’m not exactly home free. There’s still the life review I will have to endure. I know I will not be judged, but will only judge myself – and I’m sure I will be found wanting. I’m aware of most of my countless character flaws, if not all, but I have hurt or caused pain to many people in my life. And in my life review, I will have to experience all the pain and suffering I have caused other people, especially the women in my life. So, I’m not exactly looking forward to that ordeal either.
I just hope I will be ultimately reunited with my father at long last – I have missed him my whole life – and the other members of my family. But for now, I remain here in the vestibule, the antechamber to death. No telling for how much longer. Maybe I’ll still be alive to see Alcaraz battle Sinner in the Australian Open, which starts in late January. At least I can hope I will be granted one last glimpse of my current tennis hero, though I will always remain a dedicated Fedhead to my dying day!
Manet’s Death
By early April, 1883, Manet was dying, and all his close friends as well as his small family, knew it. By then, his leg had turned black, and according to witnesses, Manet was in excruciating pain. Before long, it was clear that his leg would have to be amputated. What a terrible irony for a man like Manet, a Parisian boulevardier to his core, who had loved to traipse the streets of Paris.
For ten days afterward, he lay delirious in a high fever. He was now in atrocious pain. He lasted for two more days, dying in his son’s Léon’s, arms. At his end, his agony was said to be horrific.
According to the author of the book on the impressionist artists I have been drawing on, and now I quote directly:
"At that same hour [when Manet had died], seven o’clock on Monday, April 30th, the Palais de I’Industrie was crowded with people attending a private view of the Salon. Suddenly, a kind of chill wind went through the rooms. Someone had arrived with the news that Manet was dead. A deep silence fell, and slowly, one by one, the men took off their hats."
And Now, My Own Farewell
Yes, I know. This is a real downer, and a helluva way to end this blog. But then, when we think about the state of world nowadays – with its seemingly endless violence and mayhem, its corruption, the thuggish cupidity of a certain President, the unraveling of our democracy, the frequent mass killings in America and the seemingly endless wars elsewhere, it’s not exactly a happy time. We are living in our own dark age, and despite the fact that I am writing this on the verge of a new year, the future doesn’t look that bright. Why should death be any different?
During the five years I’ve been writing these blogs, I’ve mostly written about the sublime and ineffable beauty of the luminous world that awaits us after death. As a result, I’ve had to scant the prelude to that world when we have to endure the often grueling and gruesome passage before we reach the world of light. This is something I no longer feel the need to sugarcoat.
But, dear friends, I don’t know how many of you still continue to read my blogs, but I’ve really enjoyed writing them. I’ve tried to write on subjects that would interest and entertain you, and have usually tried to sprinkle some humor, however lame, onto my less than imperishable words. So, it’s really the whole corpus of my work, and not just this blog, I hope you will remember me by.
However grim life – and death – may be, NDErs always say that life is to be enjoyed. We are here to love each other, even Republicans, and our world, and to try to make it a better place for ourselves and for those who come after us.
For reasons I have already given, I don’t really expect to write any more blogs (though I know I’ve said that before!), so I am writing now to say farewell and to thank you for your having kept me company all these years and given me a raison d’être to keep going. And for all of you who have taken the time and trouble to comment on my blogs, I am deeply grateful. May you all prosper in the years ahead.
