Death

Undergoing treatment for prostate cancer reminds me of my mortality.

A routine daily action brings death to mind. Each day I climb into my pod and lie on my back. The pod fits snugly and comfortably. I have to do something with my arms, and they can't be at my side, so I fold them over my chest. Dead man's pose. The pod silently slides into the center of the gantry like a coffin entering a crypt. Fortunately, the gantry is situated so that my body lies with my head to the west; heads to the north are not feng shui, for that is the direction of death. (I wonder if it has occurred to anyone to manufacture coffins from large diameter PVC pipe. It's just the right size for most people, can be cut to accommodate any length, and once sealed would be impervious to moisture. It would outlast the pharaohs. And it's cheap. That right there would likely keep it from being developed for funeral purposes. Morticians and their suppliers must feed their families too.) Anyway, as I lie there in my temporary tomb, I think about death. I don't think long, for the treatment only lasts thirty seconds.

Today I asked the techs if anyone had ever died in his pod. They very quickly assured me that no such thing had ever happened, and they weren't eager for the first time. I think one actually crossed himself. Surprised me. I figured they'd seen it all. Fourteen thousand patients, and not one died in his pod? Proton patients must be a healthy bunch.

Things are so hopeful around here that it's hard for me to take my illness seriously. However, this past weekend, visiting with Ray and Linda Wingerd and Betty Rose, my friends and cousins from Upland days, I learned that both Linda's father and Betty's father died of prostate cancer. In Maynard's case—Linda's father—it settled in his brain, and he was not himself at the end. James Alderfer, Betty's father, was our family physician, but he didn't catch his cancer until it had spread beyond treatability. He skied within months of his death. A hearty guy, James. And every once in a while the news reports this celebrity or that personality who recently succumbed to my disease. So yeah. It's real, and it kills. Doesn't hurt to remember that.

But other things kill, too. Struggling up that mountain yesterday, I wondered what it would take to give me a heart attack. Stranger things have happened. And then I've ridden thousands of miles on my Harley. I've had one accident, a couple near misses that I noticed and God only knows how many that I was never aware of. Not surprising that Old Bones is a frequent theme in biker tattoos, clothing, and paint jobs.

And speaking of the mountain: a historical marker at the trail head memorialized an old desert rat who lived alone at the defunct mine until he died. They found his body eventually and buried him by the trail.

Back in Lubbock, they've just completed one of the biggest celebrations of the year—the Day of the Dead. And last weekend, the world over, Christians observed All Saints Day. Thus I am reminded that death is a part of life.

I'm not at all afraid of death—the state of being dead. I'm a little more nervous about the act of dying. I would not like it to be accompanied with a great deal of pain. At this point, I'm just enjoying life too much to want to face death. I feel more of a desire for life than a fear of dying. I know that suffering can change that. I think of Farrah Fawcett. And I think of James Alderfer, who Betty said considered that, having arrived at his 80s, he'd had a good life and could let it go. My dad said the same in his last days. So at the end, Old Bones puts on a friendly smile and welcomes us to the next dimension. For now, Old Friend, pass me by. I'm content to live another day. I know you'll be back. For now, take your time.

Heard at potluck tonight (which the emcee said should be re-named "Podluck"): The inventor of the Hokey Pokey died last week. He was in his 90s. There were some problems when they went to close the coffin, 'cause he had his left leg out, he had his left leg out . . .

And this: I want to die peacefully in my sleep like my 93-year-old grandfather—not screaming in terror like the three people riding in his car.

Treatment count: 21 down; 24 to go.