Ruminations on a death foretold

“ I need advice”, he said, “ I am supposed to be dead by now but am still alive”.

“ It happened like this, “ he explained, “ Some four years ago, I had a massive heart attack which left my heart muscles fatally damaged. The doctors were pessimistic and a second expert opined that there was less than a fifty percent chance that I would survive more than an year. Faced with such direct prognosis, I did what any prudent person would do: I set about putting all my affairs in order—sold my old house, bought a more efficient apartment, replaced my old cars with a brand new one that my wife could easily drive, settled all my debts and allocated my finances to my heirs. Then I decided to take a final tour to visit old friends and family to say goodbye. Clearly the news of my near imminent demise had traveled before me. So during the visit, there was extra warmth in the hugs, reminiscences of joyous times past, louder laughter at the jokes, photos with all and longer lingering farewells—while of course no one mentioned the dread word itself. In our own family, we cheerfully discussed the option of finding a beautiful urn to store the ashes for posterity. But then nothing happened. My doctors were puzzled when not one but two years passed. And they were downright amazed when the third year rolled around and said they could not understand it and refused to give any more prognosis for the future.”

“ So here I am not sure of my future any more. Among other things, I find it harder and harder to visit family and friends who had said goodbye already and who, sometimes, it seemed to me, had reproachful look in their eyes, that I had deceived them. After all how do you say “ So sorry, the doctors were wrong? Can we start again?”

“ Let me tell you about Art Buchwald who underwent a similar experience. Art was a famous humorist who wrote a weekly column for the International Herald Tribune for most of his life. Towards the end of October, he was diagnosed to be under acute renal failure and his doctors gave him less than six months to live. So Art settled all his affairs and moved to a Washington hospice. As you know a hospice is only meant for end life patients and indeed it requires that a doctor certify that any patient they take in has no more than six months to live. Art decided to throw one long party at the hospice and invited all his friends. They dropped by – admirers and long time pals- bringing cakes and deserts that Art loved and which his sickness had long denied him. He smoked his famous cigars and flirted with all the nurses and in general had a jolly good time. Soon six months passed and he was still there. One day the director of the hospice called him and said that according to their policy, since six months had passed, he had to either die or go home. So Art went home, resumed writing his weekly columns and started work on a new book about his experiences. He cajoled his various admirers, and even his daughter, into writing his obituaries so that he could include them in his book “ Too soon to say goodbye”.

“ Moral of the story?”

" Doctors dont know everything. And the end will come when it will come, so live life to the full till then."