At 25, I recognize and hope that I’ve probably still got a generous chunk of life left to live. I am by no means over the hill, day old bread, slipping into the grave—or whatever other toxic euphemism we’ve got stored up in our cultural arsenal. I am probably, given my vocation, more aware of my […]
I’ve been captivated these last few weeks by grief and a growing sense that the quality of my life, perhaps of all life, depends in large part upon a relationship with death.
The idea that I am being ripened, that I could be the seed pod for some, as yet undefined, new life form, intrigues me.
I would be (and have been) sorely disappointed if I let my fear of death keep me from being happy in this life.
A new conversation about death has been dominating headlines and casting light on the failure of health care and medicine to help people navigate the final stage of life.
After twelve years living with Parkinson’s in an Assisted Living facility, I’d like to report that going toe-to-toe with death has become just another fact of life. But it hasn’t. In fact, the older I get (now 64), the more I dig in with all the tenacity I can muster to stave off what I know is natural and inevitable.
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It’s fun preparing for life’s positive events, but it’s those more negative ones – such as a serious illness or death – that we’re often reluctant to even discuss.