I think dying is quite a personal and situational thing. Drugged to the gills with morphine, suffering from a heart attack, packed in ice, about have my heart cut, surrounded by my family, I felt very safe and very happy that I had junked my living will. I would have taken life on any terms. Fought anyone for another minute. A few days later, criscrossed with stitches and scars, writhing in pain, I was told by my son that before the operation he thought I was panicked and afraid. What did he know? I know the instinct to live is powerful, almost overwhelming. I've seen people die in agony, fighting to the end for the privilege of just a few breaths more.
I remember talking for hours to my hanai son who was suffering from clinical depression. Life seemed meaningless to him. Rationally, he understood that he was sick. He knew people loved and cared for him. It didn't matter. Finally, very tired, 3AM, I couldn't stay awake any more. I stumbled off to my bed, half-convinced that he was right, although I had not uttered a single discouraging word. I had been treated for bi-polar disorder for many years. I was in danger.
I left him sitting on his bed, staring into the middle distance. Later that morning, he went out on the beach and hanged himself. |
