Have you ever considered how much of our everyday
behavior is learned from someone else?
Most of the routine events in our lives require a previously programmed
response. All of us have learned how to
react, get along, and behave in most social circumstances because we
assimilated over time what was acceptable behavior. That is, most of us learned…some better than
others… I can assure you. Step out of
line and somebody will be quick to call it to your attention and will assuredly
try to put you in your place. Count on
it.
Do you doubt me?
Let me give you a humorous (hopefully) example of what I am talking
about. Ladies, before I go further, let
me challenge you to check out my example with the man of your choice. I am certain that, after you stop laughing,
you will find that I speak the truth.
Assume you are a male person who needs to urinate in
a busy public place. Perhaps a large building, a convention center, an airport,
a hospital or a courthouse. You walk
into the men’s room and are confronted with a row of ten urinals. Let’s label them one through ten, starting on
the left with one and ending on the right with ten. “Four” is in use; the rest are unused. Which urinal do you pick to do your
business? The possibilities
theoretically are one through three and five through ten. Simple enough, right? WRONG!
The reality is that the possibilities are one, two and six through
ten. Given the scenario I have
presented, no man I know is going to use three, four or five. Why is this?
I do not know, except to say that
all men have somehow learned this.
Let’s take it
a step further. Suppose two, five, eight
and ten are in use. What now? You have no doubt figured out that the point
of my examples is that two guys are not going to stand next to each other and
pee if it can be avoided. However, if the row of urinals is crowded, standing
next to your fellow man is acceptable, providing you do not look around
(certainly not down and/or to the left or right). Where and when did we men
learn this?
Doubt
me? Ladies, ask your guinea pig what
would happen if in the first example he walked in and took the urinal on either
side of four. I can assure you that the
user of four will zip up and be gone in seconds because that is weird behavior
on your friend’s part, which will set off everyone’s alarm bells. (Let’s not even consider where it is is
permissible to look and what to say while peeing with your fellow man.)
The urinal example is just one small bit of learned
behavior males seem to instinctively recognize.
I am sure ladies have your own unwritten rules that your momma taught
you or that you picked up somewhere, so I will not comment on your rules, since
I do not qualify as an expert.
On the other
hand, all of us, both men and women, have been taught what to say when confronted
with recurring behavior. Let me give you
another example. You are at a
party. Your host or hostess hands you a
drink, which you promptly spill because someone bumped you. Do you get into a fight with the person who
bumped you? Of course not. All of us would immediately begin to
apologize to the host or hostess and
make an offer to help clean it up, which we know is going to be refused and is
going to be met with the inevitable “it’s no big deal…the stain will come right
out.” Everyone has a part to play in
this scenario and most of us know our parts perfectly. And it is all learned somehow, from someone,
somewhere. Probably, we learned this
programmed behavior from our parents, spouses, friends, at school or just by
experience with what seems to work and the rules of common courtesy. It is how we get along with other people and
circumstances.
Most of us know how to behave at work, with the
boss, with the spouse, with the children, with a new client, with our
physician, with the coach, with the teacher or professor and with our parents
and/or grandparents. We have been well
taught, mostly, and this shared, universal knowledge serves to take the rough
edges off polite society.
But let me ask you this. Has anyone given you instruction or advice on
how to die? Think about it. Death is universal. All of us will experience it eventually. No exceptions.
Talk about recurring behavior! Death
is an experience that is unavoidable, all-encompassing, significant and totally
inclusive. It is going to hook every one
of us. As Mick Jagger said, “No one gets
out of here alive.”
I have been thinking about this lately. I cannot recall getting any advice or
instruction on dying from anyone, including my dad, who had good advice on
almost everything. In fact, I cannot
recall even a single discussion with anyone, ever, about how to die properly. How does one go about dying properly?
As a precedent and side note, I was in my
oncologist’s office the other day when I made the comment that dying of cancer
was a “chickens—t” way for a real man to die.
She looked at me not understanding what I was saying. When she asked what I meant, I said that a
real man would die pulling eight g’s trying to outturn a SAM missile, or the
wing would fold up on his airplane, or he would be a little hot in the turn on
a motorcycle and hit a tree, or would be lost at sea on a solo voyage in his
sailboat or would make one last charge at the enemy, having run out of
ammunition. I commented that dying at home in bed, comatose from painkillers,
having wasted away to nothing did not appeal to me. She just shook her head. Maybe she knows something about dying I do
not know. Since I know absolutely
nothing, that is certainly possible, but she didn’t volunteer any inside
knowledge or advice either, and I am sure that she, like my sister, a nurse
practitioner, has seen hundreds of people die in a variety of circumstances.
What about the rules of dying? Are there such rules? If there are, where do we find them? And if found, are they good rules? I just do not know.
My wife and I recently had a discussion about dying.
I told my wife that I wanted to die like “an officer and a gentleman,” whatever
that was. Smiling, she responded that in
her view the goal should be to “die well.” As usual she is right. I like that. It sounds good, but what does that mean and,
more importantly, how do you do that? I
am not sure, but I have been thinking about it.
A few of us are going to die violently and suddenly
in car or motorcycle crashes or as victims of crimes. But the majority of us are going to meet our
end by heart attack, cancer or other disease, after a significantly long
illness. If that is what gets you, you
might have a say in the place of your death. But probably not. Any choice you might have comes down to
whether you prefer a healthcare facility or your home. The healthcare facility is not really a
choice, because if you present yourself at the ER in the final stage of a
terminal illness, someone is going to tell you, “There is nothing we can do for
you. Go home.”
I know this
for a fact, because I have checked it out.
Show up with a few days to tough out before you die and you are going to
get sent home to die. Dying in a
hospital has its benefits, to be sure.
It is clean, warm, nurses are there to take care of you, they can kill
the pain and clean up your mess, if you can’t get out of bed. Kind of like a hotel that you never check out
of. At least while alive.
On the other hand, if you die at home, presumably
someone will be present to take care of you.
Maybe. Maybe not. Like the hospital, your bedroom will be warm
and clean, and familiar to you, but there are no 24 hour nurses, and you will
wait to get painkillers from a visiting nurse, providing she can get orders
from the physician. A precarious
situation. And someone has to clean up
after you and give you a bath if you need it.
Gross.
If you want visitors, then home is probably a better
place to be, providing they can be regulated by someone. Chances are there are a few people you do not
want to see. Nurses can get rid of them
in a hospital. All you have to do is
push the call button and ask for assistance. But what about at home?
How do you get rid of an unwanted family
member? We all have them, you know. Particularly ones who may be concerned about
the will. I have been in a room where a
person was dying and the relatives were openly arguing about who got what,
totally oblivious to the not-quite-yet deceased. Very grisly.
Suppose you are in extreme pain. Most of us do not do well in pain. We tend to be difficult, nasty and say unkind
things to whoever happens to be standing there. At least I do. I do not want to unload on or snap at some
well-wisher who is there to pay his or her last respects. Also, there is the privacy issue. Most of us do not want people we care about
to see us squirming in pain. Most of us
do not want to be seen having to deal with bedpans and urine bags either. It is not dignified. It is not how we want to be remembered by
anyone. So what do you do, tell them to
get out? I do not know.
I think most of us would like to be visited in our
last days or hours by friends and loved ones who have enough sense to know when
to leave. But I think such people are
rare. I think that I would like old friends and most, but not all, family
members to hang out. But it must be within
reason. I know some people who have
actually ordered a pizza for themselves and ate it, washing it down with a few
beers in front of the dying person. Talk
about no couth.
The bedroom I have shared with Lynnie for thirty
plus years, in addition to the king-sized bed, has three rocking chairs in it,
along with my Ducati motorcycle, which is currently wintering next to our bed.
Three rocking chairs means at least three visitors. Or is that six with spouses? Is some ignorant person going to sit on my
motorcycle? I have no doubt someone will
try to buy it from Lynnie, just as soon as my last breath has slipped away. Do we need to move some of the rocking chairs
out of the bedroom, so people will have to stand and, therefore, will not stay
long? Relocate silver Duckie? I just don’t know. I suppose my wife will handle it.
Having thought about these problems and discussed
them with my wife, I guess what I would like is to be comfortably lying in my
familiar bed bathed in the morning sunlight, wrapped in my eiderdown comforter,
warm and toasty, pain free or gently floating on morphine, being held in my
Lynnie’s arms and with the Iverson resting her chin on my chest, with quiet
music playing and a few much appreciated friends quietly rocking away my final
moments. I think that would be “dying
well” by anyone’s standards. It appeals to me. Perhaps there will be a smile on
my face when I take that last look at my Lynnie and begin to hear the music. I think maybe this is doable. I shall see soon enough.
Mike out.
