Encountering Mortality

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”

          Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

“I’ve only been in hospital once before – when I was 12, to have my appendix out.”

Thus spoke Harry, 67 year old retired friend of my husband’s, suddenly in hospital for cancer surgery. Post-operative pain and thoughts of a newly uncertain future preoccupied him.. He was eager to talk to me. He knew I live with a chronic condition which has landed me in hospital several times during my life, once or twice so ill that my continued existence had been in doubt.

His once robust, athletic body was now skeletal, his complexion a shade of grey, and dark shadows lay below his eyes. Our conversation circled around coping with hospital life and dealing with pain, fatigue and boredom. Finally, he got to his main concern.

“I want to see my son get on in his career. I want to see my grandsons grow up. I have so many plans!” His voice was both anxious and questioning. I picked up on his unspoken fear and spoke quietly.

“No-one can promise you that, Harry.”

Harry slumped back onto his pillows, but the tension had disappeared from his face. Obviously, I had said what he had already been thinking. He listened intently.

“It’s a huge shift of focus, to realise suddenly that the future we had assumed was there for us may not be any longer. Under ordinary circumstances, it’s our hope for the future that gives our lives meaning, a reason to keep going. But now, with the time left to us looking decidedly less certain, we have to find another source of meaning to make us want to keep going confidently. You know, since my own experience of serious illness and possible death, I now see my encounter with mortality as a good thing, a wake up call to the truth of the preciousness of every moment I am alive.”

I went on to illustrate this shift of awareness and how simply realising we are still alive enables us to appreciate even the tiniest detail, the briefest shining moment, transforming these into sources of meaning and reasons for profound gratitude.

Harry was now looking very tired and in need of rest, but he was also smiling and much more at peace. We made our farewells and I left him to sleep.

As I drove home, I found my own spirits much lighter. It had been a great “now” moment relating so intimately with Harry, but I had also been recalled to a fresh awareness of the almost palpable connection I enjoy with the world around me that I can so easily take for granted: the warmth of sunlight, the brilliance of Spring flowers despite the drought, the satisfaction of a good book, the pleasure of sharing a meal with friends, the embrace of a loved one, and the pleasure of slipping between the sheets at the end of the day and letting go into deep sleep. Perhaps falling asleep at the end of a busy day gives us an idea of what it is like to die.

Zen Buddhist and philosopher Alan Watts [*]says: “Nothing is more creative than death, since it is the whole secret of life. It means that the past must be abandoned, that the unknown cannot be avoided….” When we know this, we live for the first time in our lives. By holding our breath, we lose it. By letting go, we find it.

“Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A flask of Wine, a Book of Verse – and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness –
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.”

          The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

* Watts, Alan. The Wisdom of Insecurity Vintage Books, New York 1951