Choose Life

Dollhouse furnished by my 12-year-old granddaughter. Why dismantle it? It’s still my life.

It’s the holiday season; Christmas, Hanukkah and the New Year are around the corner. It’s time to party with family and friends, to appreciate what we have, to celebrate life. I don’t take life for granted; for me, life’s the finest gift that’s possible, a gift that was handed to me through no effort of my own. I neither applied for life, nor worked for it, nor earned it in any way. Life for me came free of charge. There’s no person who was never born who could say that!

But, let’s face it: nothing lasts forever. With life comes death. As I age, I see illness overtake friends and family. Some need care around the clock, and eventually death wins the battle for all of us. How sad for those left behind. I understand the ravages of age, and feel it creeping over me as well, although luckily I’m still well today. Touch wood, they say, and I do that. Aging does not depend upon the season. Holidays, weekdays and weekends are all the same.

But here’s my antidote for aging, which I know may not apply to everyone: avoid, if possible, “premature death” – a death before death.

I call premature death the drive to obviate anticipated difficulties, to downsize dramatically the way of life, to replace the present with the future before its time. Of course putting one’s estate in order is responsible; no one can escape the eventual need for a final resting place. I understand making daily life less stressful. But downsizing is more complex, and involves the state of mind. Unnecessary downsizing dampens life, cuts the challenges and satisfactions, and minimizes the time at hand. Downsizing is an amputation. Considering only one of my interests – collecting Inuit art – would mean to stop collecting, to start no new collection, to begin subtracting, to put passion on the side. What’s the rush? I won’t be able to collect or enjoy art or anything else when I’m dead. I won’t feel passion, or lust, or regret – my adrenalin won’t surge – when I’m not on Earth. Now is my chance to sense it all. Why waste that opportunity? As rich a life as I’ve had, it hasn’t filled the barrel of possibilities. No life has. I’d rather stretch than contract, take a chance than hide in safety, reach forward than look behind.

When I’m asked, “What are you going to do with your Inuit art collection?” Or, concerning my recent switch from science to writing, “Why start a new career when there’s so little time left? Science is your thing.” I hear, “You’ve had your chance. Now smell the flowers, travel and the like. You deserve a rest.”

Must I throw ambition out the door? How much must I prepare for death at the expense of life?

I have no problem with facing reality, which changes with the seasons, to accept changes as they appear, whatever they might be, but I do have difficulty in creating a new reality before the old one’s gone. Even when tired, I tell myself, “Wake up. This may be the perfect time to discover something new,” although I know the day will come when that perfect time is gone.

I like to ponder death another way, like those who say, “I’m dying to go to the south of France.” Or, “I would die to have that watch.” Are those wishes, or only play on words? I suppose the latter, but better than, “I’d better skip that trip to France, or not buy that watch because age stole my time.”

My father had still another view, tongue in cheek, I think. He crossed a line I call a “pretended death”. His weapon: generosity. He gave away as freely as he acquired. “Then nobody waits for me to die,” he said. “They inherit while I’m still alive.”

As for myself, I want to grow until I die, to exploit my luck of life. My mother always said there’s no status quo: one either grows or dies. I choose to grow. I want neither a premature death nor a pretended death, nor any other type of death before my final death.

One death is quite enough.