I don’t really remember when the thought first occurred to me that I’m not long for this world. Not that I’m going to kick the proverbial bucket anytime soon. Blessedly, I, like many of us, have no idea when the exact time will be that I will need to check out from the Still Living Hotel.
I do know that I will be leaving the room a mess. Strewn about on the bed will be some failed dreams, on the sink I will leave few rings of regret, and perhaps, a little dirty laundry on the floor that no one, not even those closest to me, knew I had in my bag.
I also hope to leave the bill unpaid. Not too much, just a bit. I think it fair that I stick it to Life a little bit, since it stuck it to me on more than one occasion over the years.
And that brings me to the very thought of checkout time.
I was watching a segment on 60 Minutes on the cost of dying in America. We spend more on keeping people alive who are going to die anyway than we do on Homeland Security and Education in this country. Now, don’t get me wrong. I think everything should be done for those where there is hope. But they are putting defibrillators into patients who have terminal cancer that will die in a month or less. Why?
While I was watching, I casually mentioned that in the pioneer days, they were better at dealing with death and that we’ve taken giant steps backward in accepting the inevitable.
Along the Oregon Trail, there is something like 10 people buried along it for every mile. A hard road to hoe, people often died on the journey west; women, children, grandpas and grandmas. Families didn’t build roadside shrines to them. They didn’t hold onto them longer than they should. They let them go, they grieved and they hoped they would meet them someday in heaven.
I understand grief. I lost my brother when I was 14 and my father at 22. And I think that’s what we’ve gotten worse at – grieving. We think that holding on until the bitter end will ease the suffering. It doesn’t. When we die, we get off easy. We either stop existing or go somewhere else, depending on your belief system. The people who remain get the sucky part – they have to pick up the pieces and go through the many stages of grief. There’s no escaping it.
Since grief is unescapable, why don’t we simply learn to deal with death instead. As singer Kasey Chambers says, “we’re all going to die someday.” And the only power we have over our own demise is to plan for it.
I had a friend once who we called The Oldest Living Thing. I don’t know how old Tommy was, I only know that he was old. You wouldn’t know it by his behavior. He acted as young as I. Even in his 80s, I think the guy could out drink, out party and out womanize me in my 20s. He lived life to the fullest, every single day.
He was told he was going to die within a year. That would be a bit odd to me, to be told when I was going to die. But that didn’t stop Tommy. Instead, he planned to have his wake before he died.
He invited all his friends to a lakeside feast of food and drink. There, they were to deliver their eulogies.
This could sound a bit morbid, but Tommy wanted to hear what everyone was going to say about him while he could still have his say, too.
I think that was a pretty cool idea. How often do we not tell those closest to us what they mean to us while they are still alive? We only say it after it’s too late. Instead of a sad wake after Tommy’s death, they had a roast while he was alive. I heard it was great fun and Tommy got to see all his old friends and enjoy them while he was still full of vim, vigor and shit.
I thought of that as I watched the 60 Minutes segment. A lady was in the ICU, all hooked up to tubes, her arms strapped down so she wouldn’t pull them out, and sedated. She’d been like that for two weeks or so.
Those were her final days. I can’t imagine going like that. And I won’t.
When my father died, he was in the hospital, but my mother wouldn’t let them do anything to intervene. He was terminal. They could prolong his life artificially for a couple weeks like the lady on TV, but what kind of life was that?
I still remember when each of us went into the room for the last time. He told my brother that he had a real problem with dying. My brother looked concerned. My father said that when the moment came, he didn’t know whether to let out a big laugh for all to hear or scream at the top of his lungs to scare the other patients. Ah, the infamous Zerr humor.
The final days and hours were filled with dignity. My mother, bless her heart, made sure of it.
Of course, being me, I get all sorts of odd ideas about checkout time at the Still Living Hotel. I don’t think my ex-wife found my gallows humor funny.
One day I was looking through the Wal-Mart ad online and saw they sold caskets. I wondered aloud if they were waterproof. “Why?” she innocently asked. I said, “Well, I don’t want the water from all the ice to leak out onto the carpet.” Against her better judgement, she pressed on. “What ice?” I replied, “Well every ice chest has to have ice. How else would the beer stayed cold? I want to be at my wake, so why not make the casket serve double duty.”
She did not find me funny. The previous one did, however. Back then, I wanted to be interred in an old lighthouse at Cannon Beach in Oregon. It was a columbarium. I thought that would be cool. And she used to joke that she would sit on the beach everyday, writing in her journal. “Day 56: Enjoying the beach. Robb is still dead. But for once at least, I know where he is.”
Thankfully, checkout time hasn’t arrived yet. I still get my morning wake up call. Only know it’s my full bladder instead of a morning roll in the hay. I can still shower without handrails, I can still dine on steak and not make due with Jello and applesauce and I can still cart my own baggage around, thank you very much (though there is a lot of it, these days).
I know that some day, this isn’t going to be so. And then I’ll know that it’s time to checkout and go to a new hotel. I only hope God’s got a room for me at the Ritz Carlton and not the Super 8.
Out on the Treasure Coast at the Life’s Good Hotel, hoping the Grim Reaper didn’t just check in next door,
— Robb