When Nothing Matters

“Death must be distinguished from dying, with which it is often confused.”

-- Sydney smith 1771-1845: H. Pearson The Smith of Smiths (1934)

“Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,

And shares the nature of infinity.”

-- William Wordsworth 1770-1850: The Borderers (1842)

Seeing Mcgee like this breaks my heart, as it also confirms my terrible suspicion that our romantic perceptions and his grim reality can never be reconciled. His is a truth we can’t bear to face. The pain, discomfort, agony, and fatigue have tired and distracted him to the point that our kindly attempts to engage him from the land of the living seem more nuisance than blessing.

Why? At the end of the day, I suspect the physical and psychological anguish slowly become one, eventually obliterating any chance of escaping the demands of dying; and as this happens, room for other perceptions diminish in value: “The person sees himself; he remembers how he used to be; he wonders how far downhill he will have to go before he dies. He loses all dignity and autonomy when he loses the ability to care for himself.”

In temporary sickness we crave solitude and privacy, even with chronic conditions, but terminal illness changes the context – I think. How can I know? Perhaps social interaction becomes so freighted with the ignorance and patronization of the un-despairing, non-terminal, that contact with well-wishers is reduced to a matter of endurance and perseverance.

At some point one’s attitude while dying takes a turn the rest of us can only fearfully anticipate. When healthy, we live by ignoring the finiteness of the future. We know what’s coming, but we deny or distract ourselves from the existential dread that finally reveals itself with our acceptance that there is no postponing the inevitable.

I surmise that a point comes when nothing matters. Life, loved ones, friends and world become a distraction and curse; and as we pass from this world, the value of things that once served as roadside attractions loses all purchase; consciousness is reduced to a reminder that time and acquaintances will live on -- even with our end. Faith and philosophy pale in their utility at a time when their service would seem crucial. Life loses its meaning to the point that all concerns and desires become, ironically, a waste of time. One ceases to live, and merely exists.

What point in living when its joy is gone?

-- Randy

Quote is Dr. Jerome Sobel’s, from Harpers, November 2010