When It’s My Turn to Die

To every thing, turn, turn, turn,

There is a season, turn, turn, turn,

And a time for every purpose under heaven.          The Byrds

When it’s my turn to die, come see me.

For you see, there was a good friend of mine, a teacher, a mentor, who taught me much about people and mental health. He was a hearty type, a man who walked up and down the hill to work for years. He walked and worked and worked and walked and did this summer and winter and year in and year out. He diagnosed and read and learned and treated and taught and did this for many years. We laughed and waxed poetic and drank beer and discussed the meaning of life, as young people are want to do with their mentors, and I learned much at his feet, that man. He was around. I was around. We aged. I became a teacher and healer and mentor in my own right, and he still walked the hill up and down and up and down, until the time he didn’t. He became a case study himself, one with an illness, a terrible, awful, progressive debilitating illness that took away his walking and his standing and sitting and leaning and finally his talking too. Stripped it all away. I heard about him, though he was but a few miles away from me. I wanted to go see him, I really did. Those times that we talked about theory and motivation and symptomatology and drank beer and cracked jokes and laughed came to the surface of my brain like a great whale coming up for a glorious gulp of briny air, way out to sea. I did not go see him. I could not. I was afraid. Of what? His mortality. My mortality. Death in its second most personal form, when it takes someone you know or love. Knowing that when they go and you stay, you become them. You move up the ladder toward your own demise, closer to death than birth, rolling the dice every day. No excuses. There are none that hold water. I am ashamed. But, truth. I was afraid. I will feel guilty for letting my mentor down for the rest of my life.

So, when it’s my turn to die, come see me.

 

When it’s my turn to die, tell stories.

I love stories. You know that if you know me at all. I love to read them, I love to hear them, I love to write them and I love to tell them. Stories are life. If anything is worth anything, there is a story about it that deserves to be heard. Come into the room where I am, even if it is hard for you, come into the room on Sandburg’s little cat feet if you must, find a chair, sit knee to knee with the person there with you and tell stories. I will hear you, and I will be happier as I face death. You may not know that I hear you, I may not be able to physically show you that I hear you, but trust me, I will hear you. Tell stories of naughty things done, things left undone (yes, I am likely to still be an Episcopalian at the time of my demise) triumphs, tragedies, conquests and even failures that taught you a lesson (see paragraph one, above). Let my home-going be the homecoming for your focused thoughts about your own life and times, the things that make your story yours. It would make me so happy to know that the last things I heard, even if I was too far away from this physical world that I was not entirely aware of it, were the stories that were told by my friends and family in the room where they came to see me at the last.

When it’s my turn to die, tell stories.

 

When it’s my turn to die, be pragmatic.

Look, this is it, okay? This is what’s going to take me out of this world and allow me to discover the next. I may have seen it coming, I may not have. Either way, it’s time. I’m good with that and you should be too! I have had a fabulous life. I have had wonderful relationships, I have great children and grandchildren to leave in charge of things here, I have worked at jobs and vocations that I loved, I have traveled the world, I have climbed mountains and I have cheated death. (Just not this time.) Look at me over there, across the room. I am breathing hard, but after all, if I have been lucky, I  have taken more than seven hundred million breaths in my lifetime. What are sixteen more, a hundred more, five hundred more? My poor tired heart has beaten almost three billion times. It has loved fiercely, but it is ready to rest. Mourn for me, yes, please. Shed a few tears. Tell those stories. Reminisce. Celebrate my life and how it intersected with yours. But then, please, please be kind, and let me go. It’s time.

When it’s my turn to die, be pragmatic.

 

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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