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As I Lay Dying
When the Comtesse de Vercellis, well, passed gas while she was dying, she said, quite reasonably I think, “Good! A woman who can fart is not dead.” Then she died.
The Comtesse didn’t seem to care a whit about other people’s opinions of her. But surely she is an exception to the mass of humanity. Most people care—as they should—about the world’s opinion.
When you don’t care at all about the world’s opinion, you are a sociopath. When you care too much, you’re not enough your own man and the world is too much with you. As usual, the golden mean is the way to go.
I have a story about a man who cared too much about the world’s opinion.
The following episode is true, but I’ve changed names for reasons that will be obvious. When I taught at Middleboro State University, Professor Dubman died in front of his class. According to his students, Dubman was lecturing when his coherence began to go to pieces. Dubman wasn’t too coherent to begin with, so it took the students awhile to notice a difference.
But this time he started rambling more than usual and started to stare off into space. This went on for a minute or so. Then he collapsed, stumbling awkwardly on his way to the floor, spittle coming from his lips. His heart had stopped. A student rushed to the front and started artificial respiration. Dubman came back to life.
I talked to Dubman when he retuned to the University after a period of rehabilitation. “Kent,” he said, “you know what my last thoughts before death were? I was worrying about how foolish I looked as I began to fall apart. I landed on the floor rather awkwardly, you know.”
Afterwards, back in my office, I started thinking about what Dubman had said. Isn’t it sad that in the last moments of his life, his mind was dwelling on what people thought of him? There was a man who worried too much about the world’s opinion.
As we die, shouldn’t we be thinking of our wives, husbands, mothers? Or, even better, a great thought or two. “Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of. . . . . .Ack!”
Goethe was supposed to have cried out, “More light, more light!”
The artist and writer, Dereck Jarman, said, “I want the world to be filled with white fluffy duckies.”
W.C. Fields’ last words: “G-d damn the whole friggin’ world and everyone in it but you, Carlotta. (Carlotta was his mistress.)
Margaret Sanger: “A party! Let’s have a party!”
Steve Jobs last words were, “Oh wow! Oh wow! Oh wow!”—as if he were seeing something no one else could see. Or perhaps he was playing a final joke on us.
But no big thoughts for Professor Dubman as he was dying. He was worried about how foolish he looked.
I hope my last thoughts on this earth will not be about what others are thinking of me. So I’m planning right now that my last word will be “Marie.”
Endnote: Have you thought about what your last words will be? Your mind may be distracted, you know, so you ought to have something in mind.
Published in General
Nope. It’s something different.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Death_of_the_Ball_Turret_Gunner
I think it was Steven Wright who said that he tells people the first word he ever spoke was ‘quote’, and that he plans his last words to be ‘end quote’.
That’s choking to death in a very sexy car, right?
Everyone here should appoint someone to notify another Ricochet member if we die. The question is which one? I should probably tell my wife to write to Melissa and ask her to write a Rico-eulogy, since she would have the kindest things to say about me. But also write to Hank and Matt, as they would come up with the funniest one-liners in the comments. And Jason, so he could put up some inappropriate pictures. Make sure Gary knows, so he can write me a beautiful death scene in the following installment of Ricochet Silent Radio. The worst part about dying would be not being able to read that post.
I guess I’m REALLY dense. I still don’t get it.
An addendum to #94: Arahant, if you come to my funeral, please wear a cape. You choose which one.
Ideally, he would have died praying, but he died swearing instead. So, you should say a prayer every night, to kind of make up for it if you end up dying while swearing?
He’s already promised to come to mine and do this:
“According to most studies, people’s number one fear is public speaking. Number two is death. Death is number two. Does that sound right? This means to the average person, if you go to a funeral, you’re better off in the casket than doing the eulogy.”
― Jerry Seinfeld
I see. So it wasn’t dependent on exactly how the Knight died.
Ha, ha, ha! Great quote, Bastiat.
Kent
Bastia, one more thing. In my last post, I talked about the absolute terror I felt when I acted in a play. Far more terrifying than a couple of life-threatening episodes I told about earlier in the post.
Kent
Not sure about my last words, but I want my tombstone to say, “It smells like something died in here!”
Saw that. It was a good post.
There were patterns that came about. I would be taking care of a client. Maybe there was nothing overtly obvious that they were heading downward. Sure a person could say, “Well the guy was 84 years old,” but people live to be 90 or older.
An example: So one day I began my shift with B, and he was saying, “I couldn’t sleep last night. I was taking a nap on the living room recliner. I suddenly realized my mother & father & my relatives were either sitting on the couch across from me or else out on the patio. Then they all said at once, “Hey, B. why don’t you come over and sit on the couch with us.”
And he knew it wasn’t going over to the couch that they meant. Within 6 months he had gone down hill. He died of pneumonia while in a nursing home. I missed him terribly as we’d become good friends in the 18 mos we were together, caregiver and client. But he had always said if he was no longer mobile he didn’t want to stay around.
Right after him, I had a client with brain cancer. Born in 1905, he’d been brought up in a strict Protestant family in New England. All very upper lip rather way of holding in emotions. His sister had died in the 1918 influenza epidemic. His family removed her body while he was asleep so literally she was in his life one day, then gone the next. No one ever spoke of her again. (He became a psychiatrist as a result.)
So I meet him while in his mid eighties and has terminal cancer. He was also an atheist. Due to his brain cancer, he stopped taking in fluids or eating. The doctor came to the house and said that John had maybe at most three days.
He lived on for three weeks. Just a lil water; a mouthful of food every so often. Three weeks! Toward the end, he began talking to someone. He’d be saying, “So I never thought I’d see you again. I wasn’t able to talk about you. Not even mention your name. Yet you are so alive.” Pause. “The hill you are on is gorgeous; how do I get over there.” He had other similar conversations. One moment he sat up in bed and took my hand, “She knows how I can get to her.” (He had not spoken directly to me for ten days.) “Who knows?” I asked. “My sister.”
I firmly believe that he couldn’t let go of life until he understood there is something beyond the life we currently have as ours. Once he knew there was, he was able to let go.
He died the next day.
####
I used to do acting; when I was afraid, I would comfort myself with the fact that it wasn’t as though I was doing brain surgery: if I messed up, no one would die. It never occurred to me to think that at least I wouldn’t die: I thought of it in terms of, no matter how badly I may mess up, at least I won’t kill anyone. Which maybe lends credence to the idea that people are more afraid of public speaking than they are of death?
Judithann, I’ve tried all kinds of mental games like that. Nothing works when my autonomous nervous system takes over.
Kent
My mother died in my arms, shortly after singing the Shama with me, and then opened her eyes, and said, “papa” in a surprised voice, and a few minuets later she quit breathing. Her father died in 1942, she died in 1998. I’m convinced her father was waiting for her.
I could have that on my tombstone: “Nothing worked when my autonomous nervous system took over.”
Being a father with three daughters, this comment got to me.
I just hope their final words are many, many decades from now.
Kay, very sweet.
Kent
I also hope they have a daughter or someone like you with them in their final moments.
For my granduncle, it was seeing his dogs.
Thank you, a sweet thought. My mom had Alzheimer’s and had long since forgotten her children, or anyone else but she did recognize her sister the last time they were together. She had a very close relationship with her dad but he died when she was 26 years old. She died at 82. When I was young and starting out with genealogy, she talked a lot about her dad. Her mother was quite abusive and her dad would step in and try to protect her. The surprised lilt in her voice with her last word, papa?, convinces me. I hope as well that you are on the other side waiting for your daughters when they cross over, and that they live long and satisfying lives.
I have been there. I have known that people had died before I got the news.
Same here.
Malcolm Reynolds said that everyone dies alone. I think that’s probably true. You may have people with you, but you’re the only one dying.
Okay. This will explain it:
This will explain it.
The comments aren’t working quite right yet. When I posted comment 118, it went to the zero screen. So I tried again. Then 118 and 119 appeared. :-)