The Art of Learning to Die

“While I thought I was learning how to live, I have been learning how to die.”

Leonardo da Vinci

When I was young, sickness and health were never topics for contemplation. I thought nothing of how capricious and fleeting health can be. Nor did longevity occur to me, I never gave a thought to the preparation or management of decades of decline.

Tasked with caregiving of my mother in her 90’s, I saw that although living may be hard, it is a lot harder to die. It is hard to die, even though the wisdom you’ve distilled over the years deteriorates. Your perception of the world becomes like Swiss cheese ‒ so many holes that nothing makes sense. It is hard to die, even when your senses have shut down and you can’t see, hear, taste or smell the world around you, as in my mother’s case. Yet the body is stubborn, it wants to wring every bit of life from its decrepit essence even when it can no longer function the way it was meant to.

Scenarios of the moment of my mother’s death crept into my consciousness. I wondered about how she would let life go, and when? Would I get a call in the middle of the night or simply arrive one day to find her lifeless? Would it be next week, or tomorrow, or this afternoon? Would she exit screaming in agony or with a smile on her face? Or would she quietly waste away, unaware of leaving this dimension?

Learning how to die is a painstaking daily exercise wherein you’re busily plugging holes in the doomed dam of life. It takes huge amounts of energy. I watched and learned.

While the challenges of a truly advanced age yet await me, I was already immersed in the process through the vigil of care. I emulated the behavior of my mother’s generation, already practising being older than my age. Involuntarily ‘oys’ escaped my lips when I stood up. My pace became much slower than it might still have been. I learned to limit myself to safe activities ‒ no more climbing ladders or bike-riding. Every twinge alerts me that soon it will be my turn, and I wonder how it will go for me. Will I become self-absorbed in the banal examination of my life? How will I handle my deteriorating condition? What meaning will I derive from challenges that plague me?

Rather than looking to my mother for answers about life, as would have been the normal order of things, I looked elsewhere for answers to give her when she asked, “Why am I still here?”

I wanted to tell her something she could hold on to, a succinct nugget of wisdom about the meaning of the life. I know it isn’t joy or pleasure because they are as capricious and fleeting as health, they can’t give meaning to our existence. Neither can the lack of pleasure take meaning away from life. So what is it? It is ephemeral, changing from person to person from hour to hour. Sadly I couldn’t reveal the meaning of her life to my mother, it is something she had to discover for herself, as a daily pursuit. Dying is hard work.

Just as sickness never played a part when I imagined my future, neither did caregiving. I never would have applied for the job. No, I only imagined the time when, as a retired person, I would no longer be held back by the incessant needs of others. But just when my daughter was no longer dependent on me, my mother was. Caregiving, like it or not, has become the meaning of my life ‒ it is the master class of learning how to die.

Luckily, I was still able to summon energies for schlepping my charge to endless medical appointments, lugging wheelchairs and walkers in and out of the car, shopping, providing sustenance both physical and emotional. And doing everything in painful slow motion to accommodate her pace when I felt like running, running, running.

Instead of fleeing, I let loose that cache of unconsummated creativity I’ve been carrying as baggage for so many years. To this very day, it spurts out of me at intervals via paint on canvas, charcoal on paper, or words on a page. I am also ravenous for books. I read everything with renewed vigor, trying to glean every bit of knowledge from the texts, as if packing for a one way trip to a desert island.

As I imagine my future now, it is not a dreamy contentment but a challenge to remain upright and present until I’m gone.

Oy indeed.