Dying and Immortality

I have metastatic bone cancer. I do not know how much longer I have left. I’m not quite dying yet. But I have been coming to terms with my condition. It is the human condition. We will all die in a matter of months. Maybe one, possibly a thousand. But there is only so much sand in the hourglass.

Is It Better to Live Forever?

Is that a bad thing? Epicurus urged that since death is the cessation of all thought and feeling, it is neither good nor bad. Hume (and others) pointed out that we should no more regret the time after we die than we regret the time before we were born, as they are really no different. I can’t quite share that view, because there are things we care about and devote ourselves to. I love my children and their lives, but I will no longer be able to help and guide them once I die. When my mother was dying and I felt such pain and grief, my main thought was that I wish I could spare my family this pain when I die. Of course I wish I could experience all the things I’ve missed in life and experience again the joys and delights I’ve cherished. But I have lived a good life. I’ve had wonderful parents, four amazing children, and a wife I adore. I’ve composed operas and symphonies and written five books and several poems I’m proud of. I got to spend 42 years teaching, a job I loved. Life doesn’t owe me anything. I’m grateful for what I’ve had. But I ache for the hurt my family will feel when my hands are not there to hold them.

Perhaps that’s why Thomas Nagle says that, no matter how long we live, death is an evil, a bad thing that happens to us. Bernard Williams argues that it’s a good thing we don’t live forever. Who is right?

An Easy Answer

Well, they could both be right—that is one of the paradoxes of infinity. However big a finite number is, you can always make it bigger by adding 1. But adding 1 to infinity doesn’t make it any bigger. So it is logically possible that, even if it is better that we don’t live forever, when we do die, it would always be better to have lived one more year. If so, no matter how many finite years we live, dying is always bad thing, even though it’s best that we don’t live forever.

A Deeper Answer

But there’s a deeper way in which both Nagle and Williams are right. Human life is a green tragedy. “Death,” says William James, “is the worm at the core of all our usual springs of delight.” That is why the sparkle of every laugh is glistened by a tear. Every joy has an expiration date: the passion of sex, the sweet flash of berry across the tongue, the tender rush of watching your child sleep, the giddiness of finding the right note, the right  color, the right word. Every joy winks out. You will either die or live to a time you can’t do it anymore. But all grief is at once a celebration of what was lost. Nothing affirms life more than the loss of it. Shakespeare understood this: every tragedy has its comic relief. Every comedy has its stark undertone. We revel, but always there comes a time when our revels now are ended. In every laugh a tear, in every tear a laugh.

Is it better that we don’t live forever? Imagine an angel who lives forever in the sky, an angel who never dies and is never sick. Some people believe they are real. I do not, but I can imagine. Their lives are nothing like ours. Can anything ever be truly precious to them? They can value things. Perhaps, with the benefit of greater wisdom, they can see the value of things better than we can. But they can never feel the urgency of what we cherish, for part of what makes something precious is its rarity, its scarcity in time and space, its bubble beauty that must needs burst. Laughter always stops. “Only now” is its essence. We live in the shadow of things eternal, whether geometry or, for some, divinity. But they are only shadows. Shadows matter, but it is essential to being human that the world in which we walk and talk and breathe and make and rest and think and hope and fear is a world of ruins and sinking sands. This is the tragedy and glory of human life. Mortality is the taste of human life. It is a bitter cracker. And yet, how sweet are the tiny morsels it holds. I don’t know if human life is better than immortal life, but it is utterly different.

Can Death Be a Blessing?

I didn’t go through the stages we’re supposed to go through when learning of a terminal condition. (Elizabeth Kuebler-Ross identifies denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance). It took quite a while for a definitive diagnosis, and I did hold off somewhat emotionally until I knew what I was dealing with. Once the test results came in, I accepted at once that I probably had at most a year.  No anger, bargaining, or depression. As Maya Angelou says, “I seem at peace with the idea that a day will dawn when I will no longer be among those living in this valley of strange humors.” I don’t fear death itself. But do I fear the process of dying, the pain, the suffering, the helplessness.

So I do think that death, as we often say, is sometimes a blessing. In many ways life is an extraordinary gift. Each sensation is a wonderment, a miracle of beauty: the red of a dew-kissed cherry in the sun, the sound of the wind in autumn leaves, the touch of a loving hand, the taste of a ripe strawberry, the scent of jasmine late of a summer afternoon. To those rendered immobile, the simple joy of walking across a room or under a tree is unfathomable. (I relish these things after being confined to a chair for a week.) Cavorting with friends, kissing a lover, jumping in the surf—the delights of life are uncountable. I do find myself keeping a kind of mental checklist of the things I may never do again. But it is this quality of life that counts, not just continuing to breathe and metabolize sugar. I do not want to suffer. If I am terminally ill and suffering, so that there is no “coming out the other side,” I do not want to continue. I am no use to myself or to my loved ones, who are not helped by seeing me suffer. What counts as terrible suffering varies with each person. Personally, I don’t think I want to live if I am permanently bedridden. I’ve always needed to be up and about and always grown overwrought about being confined. (It is like severe claustrophia, but about being trapped or confined, not about small spaces.) Personally, it would be torture. It is only a cruel and sadistic society that insists people endure torment rather than embrace the surcease of death. Respect the choice of those who will do anything for one more day. Respect the choice of those who prefer peace to pain.

Can We Be Harmed After We Die

 Philosophers debate whether the dead can be harmed. The law seems to think they can. It is a crime to mutilate a corpse (or have sex with one). I feel that, once I die, my corpse is not me. It’s just so much stuff. I’m fine with putting my corpse in a blender and using it to fertilize the roses. Along those lines, some philosophers have said the dead can’t be harmed. For them, harm is psychological—what matters is what we feel and experience. Since the dead feel nothing, nothing can harm them. I think that’s wrong. You’re harmed because of the things you care about, when what matters to you suffers a setback. (Philosophers say a harm is a set-back to an interest.) I don’t just care about my feelings. I care about my children, for example. If, after I’m dead, someone harms my child, they have also harmed me, because I care about my child’s welfare and their future even more than I care about my own life (or anything I might feel). My dedication to my children is stronger than my dedication to my life or to my feelings. I will not feel pain if my children are killed after I die, but my life will have been, overall, worsened by it. Imagine someone whose entire life was dedicated to ending slavery. Had slavery continued to this day, that would be a defeat for them. Their lives would have been more successful had slavery ended shortly after they died. The Greeks said “count no man happy until he is dead,” because you never know what fate will bring. I say that’s still too soon.

Immortality

Some religions promise immortality. But nothing is eternal. Even the universe itself is unstable. It will end, either by expansion or contraction, by sputtering out or blowing up, and even if it restarts, this cycle, the universe we know and love, will die. Art seems to promise immortality. A book captures the thought of a person long dead. After 2000 years, Pericles still speaks to us when we look at his statue. Art has the power to reach across centuries. One of my favorite paintings is Rembrandt’s Aristotle with a Bust of Homer. Aristotle feels the agony and joy of both the kinship of a great mind hundreds of years gone and the unbridgeable distance between them. They are connected by art. Martha Nussbaum talks about how music can express grief and the vulnerability of life. My final symphony is both a loving farewell to life and a recognition of its pains and hardships. But even works of art crumble eventually. Who knows what great songs our earliest ancestors sang?

A life doesn’t end when one’s last breath is drawn. My father lives on in me, for everything good in me comes from him. He was a piano teacher, and his piano sits in my living room. I feel his presence every time my son or daughter plays. Each note they play is a continuation of his life, of who he was, what he meant, what he stood for. After giving lessons all day he would come home tired and tell me stories. We would laugh together until my mother would call up “Kurt, he has to sleep!” Every story I told my kids, every laugh that crosses their lips, or their children’s lips, is a part of the story of his life. So my father is not truly dead. He lives on in these very words, and in the life you lead after reading them.

And yet, the universe as we know it will end. Not just these words and thoughts, but all words and thoughts, will be forgotten. But not erased. The past is what it was, and the warmth and love and laughter that filled my father’s heart will always be a part of it.

Letter for the Day I’m Gone

I will end with a letter I wrote to my family. I hope I still have time left on this earth. But it is likely my wife and children will outlive me. I want them to be able to re-read this letter when they are sad, scared, lonely, or happy with good memories. It is the only small way I can still be there for them when I am gone, as a remembered voice and a remembered touch. For those of you who are dying or who have lost a loved one, I hope this letter speaks for you as well.

***

[I was fortunate to have been able to tell my parents and brother everything I needed to say before they died. I wanted to make sure I have the same opportunity with you, my beloved wife and children, before I die. This is a start.]

7/23/2025

You will have many years of life ahead without me. I wish I could have been there for you to share those years. But I want you to remember eleven words, words for when you are happy, but especially words for when life is hard. Here they are:

Carry me in your heart and you will never be alone.

Everything I was, all of my being, everything I stood for, shines with love for you. I dedicated myself to many things: to music and poetry, to human understanding, to a world worth cherishing for everyone in it. But most of all, above all else, I dedicated myself to you. These five names, Maricar, Erin, Noah, Rachel, and Moss, are magical to me. They resonate with everything worthwhile, everything worth loving and caring for. I am so proud of all of you and feel so lucky to have had you in my life. Each of you has challenges, and I wish more than anything that I could continue to help you face them. But each of you also has strengths and qualities worth cherishing and celebrating. You are all amazing in your own way. Never forget that.

I do not believe in a conventional afterlife, but I believe that our lives mean something. They remain part of the history of the cosmos. Whatever moments of beauty we create endure as part of what has been, a pearl in the fabric of time. Our moments of insight, intimacy, love, compassion, and joy are not lost, for, in the final words of my first opera, what has been, has been, throughout eternity. My intense, sweet, tender, steadfast, unending love for each of you will always be there. It will always be part of who you are that you were loved completely and unreservedly.

Draw upon that love in moments of need. Even if I am no longer there to say it, my love for you speaks resolutely in everything I have ever been and ever felt. Carry me in your heart and you will never be alone.

I die happy and grateful that life has given you to me. You have all meant so much to me. Maricar, Erin, Noah, Rachel, and Moss, you have made my life so much richer and given me so much joy. I have so many happy memories with each of you. Those memories are my treasure chest. I hope that in some small way you feel the same.

I love you, and I always will.

Your devoted husband and father,

Eugene

Disclaimer

Nothing that appears on this blog is meant to replace legal advice, therapy, or medical treatment. I am not providing legal, medical, or mental health advice. Always seek the advice of your own attorney or medical or mental health provider about specific questions concerning your specific health or legal issues.