Many of you, perhaps even most of
you, will not remember George Sanders, English actor, songwriter, author and
bon vivant, several marriages, one to Zsa Zsa Gabor. I remember him best from
the movie The Portrait of Dorian Gray,” although it was not his greatest part
during his forty year career. At age 65 he reportedly said, “Life isn’t fun
anymore,” imbibed several bottles of the barbiturate Nembutal, and left a
brief, signed suicide note:
“Dear World, I am leaving because
I am bored. I feel I have lived long enough. I am leaving you with your worries
in this sweet cesspool. Good luck.”
I believe Sanders was a bit of a
cynic, perhaps an attitude he developed from so often playing villains, perhaps
from his several marriages and divorces, perhaps just from life in general. As
he grew older his health began to slip away, perhaps even his mental health,
and he was concerned because he did not want anyone to have to care for him. I
confess that now that I am twenty-five years older than he was at the time of
his death I sometimes think of death and dying. I certainly do not think of
this on a daily basis. Indeed, sometimes I wonder why it does not occupy my
mind much more than it does. But I would be lying if I said I never think of
it.
As near as I can tell I seem not
to fear death itself. I may, in a perverse way, even look forward to it. Once,
in the middle of the night, in a Sydney, Australia Hospital, where I was
suffering a kidney stone, I was given a shot of morphine. It was the most
marvelous experience of my life, a relaxation so complete and satisfying, so
blissful and pleasant, I assumed that must be what death would be like (I hope
I am right).
But to say you do not fear death
is not to say you do not fear dying. If I knew I would die peacefully in my
sleep at a ripe old age I guess I would not fear dying. Unfortunately, that is
not the way most people die.
As I do not know how I might die
I am concerned about it. Having seen friends slowly die, sometimes over months
of suffering, sometimes from cancer, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and such, I’m
sure a heart attack would be preferable, but certainly not a stroke, strokes
can be fairly quick, but most often they are not and the aftermath is not at
all pleasant. These are grim thoughts to be sure, but unavoidable.
During the course of my life I
have lost five friends to suicide, two by self inflicted gunshots, one by
carbon monoxide, one by hanging, and one (uncle) by slitting his wrists. I
believe alcohol played a part in two of these cases but in no case do I really
or truly understand why they decided to end their lives as they did. I do know
that in every case their survivors suffered dreadfully even though they may
well have had nothing to do with it. Survivors always, however erroneously,
believe it was somehow partly their fault: they should have known, they should
have done something, they just weren’t paying enough attention to the person,
and so on. Knowing this, and having witnessed such suffering, makes one who
loves others an unlikely candidate for such a deed. At the same time, strange
as it may seem, I think I can understand how one might fear both life or dying
strongly enough to actually commit suicide in order to avoid either of those
experiences. Not death with dignity, of course, more like death from despair.
Although in a way it may be
playing with words, I don’t think depression is a sufficient cause or
explanation for suicide. One can overcome depression, one still can have hope.
It is hopelessness, I believe, that leads to suicide, hopelessness that I
suppose can follow depression, but is probably the necessary condition for
suicide. I suspect this may even be true even cross-culturally.
I do not worry about this on a daily basis. In
fact I rarely worry about it at all, especially during winter, spring, and
summer, as I believe when I die it will be in autumn. Autumn is the proper time
to die, along with the flowers and leaves and accompanying sadness. And when it
happens my journey to the west will be complete, the sun will set for the last
time, and all will be well. Dying is not described as Eternal Rest or Resting
in Peace for no reason. No one really knows this, of course, but it makes far
more sense than believing in some continual, even eternal, struggle in another “sweet
cesspool.” Anyway, as dying is so commonplace and happens so frequently I don’t
understand what all the fuss is about.
So Merry Christmas, Happy
Holidays, Peace and Goodwill for all.
“ Nothing,
they say is more certain than death, and nothing more uncertain than the time
of dying”
Thomas Paine
Thomas Paine