Since my dad’s abrupt death at age 76, the bargaining element of my grief has largely focused on what a better mode of death would have been. It goes without saying that he should have been older, but beyond that, here’s what I think the ideal death looks like.
You’ve been feeling a little off, so you go to see your doctor. She lets you know that you have a disease for which there is a treatment, but no cure. Your prognosis is 3-5 years. You’ll have to come in about 4 times a year for a shot that will leave you feeling lethargic for a day, and you’ll have to take a pill each day that’s so big you’ll think you’re being asked to unhinge your jaw like a boa constrictor, but otherwise, you’ll be feeling about 95% well.
Your family will have enough time that they won’t abandon their lives, but their yearly visits will become seasonal and what used to be a weeklong visit will get pushed to two weeks. You’ll still feel well enough to travel, yourself, and you’ll go see all the things, plant some trees, celebrate the big life moments of your children.
After 2 years, you’ll notice a new symptom, and your doctor will remind you that this is a part of the disease progression, but that you’re expressing it a little later than most, so you’ll likely make it to that 5 year mark, maybe even 6. The symptom will make travel more difficult, but not impossible.
Your children will decide that they should come live near you so that their kids can really get to know their grandparent, and so they can record all the stories and advice you hadn’t shared yet.. You won’t need much care at this point, but you’ll be glad they’re here in case things take a sudden turn. You’ll get to make sure all your affairs are in order so there’s nothing to take care of when you do pass.
You’ll get to the 4 year mark feeling pretty good, but as you approach 5 years, your symptoms will deteriorate very slowly. You’ll never doubt that you’re on the path of the disease. There will be no experimental treatments available. You’ll gradually be getting increased dosages of painkillers, but life will still be enjoyable, and you’ll still be coherent.
Your family will take care of you, and family gatherings will become more frequent. You’ll see 3rd cousins at a family reunion that you hadn’t seen in years, and you’ll introduce your children to a whole new branch of relations.
When you’re about a month from year six, your health will take a sharp turn for the worse. The doctor will let you and your family know that the end is coming soon, probably within the week. You’ll go home that night, with brochures for hospice care that you do not read. At dinner, your family will prepare your favorite meal, which you can’t really enjoy any more, but you’ll smile at them anyway, hoping your love for them is apparent in your eyes. They’ll all tell you they love you. One of the people who loves you will help you get to bed, kiss you on the forehead, and tell you that they’ll see you in the morning. You’ll think, but not say, “You’ll see me, but I won’t see you.”
