Copyright October 2011
The recent death of Steve Jobs evoked the oft-heard comment in the media that he
had “lost his battle with cancer.” We all eventually “lose our battle” with death. In the following essay, written over a decade ago, I express my dissatisfaction with that expresses my feelings
about that perspective.
“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of
day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Dylan Thomas
The first time I read these words I was a teenager, and I shouted whatever was the
current vernacular version of-- "YES!" Fight to the very end,I exulted. That's how I would be when my time came; that's how everyone should be.
I have had quite a few years to think it over,and with old age now a present reality, burning and raging have quite lost their appeal.
Probably his bellicose stance helped Thomas the son. The psychotherapist in me recognizes that one defense against the pain of loss is to focus on the behavior of the person being lost. And, if we refuse to accept parental death we can, like Woody Allen, nourish the secret, sly wish that although "everyone dies, I'm hoping in my case they will make an exception."
But how did Thomas the father feel about it? We'll never know.
My own father died unexpectedly in his sleep when I was nine years old. Some part of me must have felt angry and betrayed, but at nine I could not articulate my grief, let alone my rage. What it was like for him, I can never know. I have since experienced the death of my grandmother in her eighties, my mother in her seventies, friends, colleagues, and teachers in middle age, and young clients and friends cruelly claimed by AIDS and cancer. The task of separating two urgent needs - my wish to be spared the agony of final separation, and the dying person's right to unqualified loving support - never gets easier, never less essential.
I have come to believe that affirmation of life is wonderfully congruent with acceptance of its inevitable end, and that the instinct to survive is completely compatible with ultimate acquiescence. "A good death" may be a rarity but it is not an oxymoron.
The beauty of this seeming paradox was illuminated for me by the work and example of Arnold Beisser, M.D. Arnie was 25, a recent medical school graduate, Navy reserve officer, and tennis champion when in 1950 polio left him paralyzed from the neck down. He went on to marry, to pursue his career as a psychiatrist and teacher, and to influence countless patients, students, colleagues and friends with his gentle and humane wisdom.
He talked about how our metaphors for health and survival are those of the battlefield and the competitive world of business and sports. We "win" or we "lose." Thus we have "weapons" to "conquer" cancer. Thus the obituaries daily give notice of fallen warriors who "lost a long fight with......." Thus we applaud those who "successfully" recover, and call them "super-stars."
How we long to believe it is all within our control, that we can make anything happen. We can avoid feeling wrenching pity for the child born deformed, for the family killed in a plane crash, if we can persuade ourselves that somehow it must have been their responsibility. If only we try hard enough, say the right
incantations, acquire the most lethal "weapons" to banish tragedy, we will be spared a similar fate.
There is an alternative. Instead of weapons, why not tools, to help us heal, to live
and celebrate our life to the fullest? Some years ago I attended a workshop for mental health professionals on the use of visualization to shrink tumors. The
suggested imagery was of tanks running over the cancer cells, machine guns
wiping them out, etc. When several women, including me, objected to the warlike metaphor we were told that our protest was a function of female resistance to owning anger. We had no problem owning and expressing our anger at this interpretation. Mindful of some studies suggesting that the muscle relaxation elicited by gentle,
nurturing imagery enhances the immune system and that the reverse is true of
tension-evoking hostile visualization, we created some alternate imagery:
There is a garden where both lovely flowers and poisonous weeds grow. We water the
flowers and enrich the soil. We do dig up some weeds, and we may use some
chemical spray (taking care not to damage the flowers} but mostly we nourish
the flowers and watch them crowd out the weeds and take over the garden.
In another visualization, malignant cells are seen as aggressive bullies. We disarm
them with the "broken record" technique, repeating over and over:"No, sorry, you can't come in here ..of course you want to very much but it simply isn't allowed...the door is powerful,pounding on it won't help.... the locks are incredibly strong...no matter what you do you can't come in. Just give it up and go away." We imagine the frustrated cancer cells slinking away,wearily muttering, "We're wasting our time. Let's split." Arnold Beisser was not embattled. He did not hate his disability or the prospect of death, and since hate is a necessary component of warfare, he did not go to war.
Did he "fail" in his efforts to recover? To anyone knowing him or reading his remarkable 1970 book “Flying Without Wings” such a notion is absurd. Did his death at age 60 mean that he had "lost his long fight with polio?" More absurdity. It is his response to disability and loss that inspires us; he transformed his tragic
circumstances by going gently.
Is longevity all we aspire to? Do we admire a rose less because it will not
live as long as an oak tree? The Alcohol Anonymous prayer asks for courage to change what can be changed, serenity to accept what cannot, and the wisdom to know the difference. Acquiring that wisdom is surely one of our
most worthy and important goals.
We can appreciate the benefits of medical and cosmetic advances, while honoring age--and eventually death. Integrating those polarities is a path to serenity. We can
cherish life, work tirelessly to find cures and relieve suffering, and look as attractive as possible, while recognizing the truth and beauty of Buddha's words: "Everything that has a beginning has an ending. Make your peace with that and all will be well."
The recent death of Steve Jobs evoked the oft-heard comment in the media that he
had “lost his battle with cancer.” We all eventually “lose our battle” with death. In the following essay, written over a decade ago, I express my dissatisfaction with that expresses my feelings
about that perspective.
“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of
day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Dylan Thomas
The first time I read these words I was a teenager, and I shouted whatever was the
current vernacular version of-- "YES!" Fight to the very end,I exulted. That's how I would be when my time came; that's how everyone should be.
I have had quite a few years to think it over,and with old age now a present reality, burning and raging have quite lost their appeal.
Probably his bellicose stance helped Thomas the son. The psychotherapist in me recognizes that one defense against the pain of loss is to focus on the behavior of the person being lost. And, if we refuse to accept parental death we can, like Woody Allen, nourish the secret, sly wish that although "everyone dies, I'm hoping in my case they will make an exception."
But how did Thomas the father feel about it? We'll never know.
My own father died unexpectedly in his sleep when I was nine years old. Some part of me must have felt angry and betrayed, but at nine I could not articulate my grief, let alone my rage. What it was like for him, I can never know. I have since experienced the death of my grandmother in her eighties, my mother in her seventies, friends, colleagues, and teachers in middle age, and young clients and friends cruelly claimed by AIDS and cancer. The task of separating two urgent needs - my wish to be spared the agony of final separation, and the dying person's right to unqualified loving support - never gets easier, never less essential.
I have come to believe that affirmation of life is wonderfully congruent with acceptance of its inevitable end, and that the instinct to survive is completely compatible with ultimate acquiescence. "A good death" may be a rarity but it is not an oxymoron.
The beauty of this seeming paradox was illuminated for me by the work and example of Arnold Beisser, M.D. Arnie was 25, a recent medical school graduate, Navy reserve officer, and tennis champion when in 1950 polio left him paralyzed from the neck down. He went on to marry, to pursue his career as a psychiatrist and teacher, and to influence countless patients, students, colleagues and friends with his gentle and humane wisdom.
He talked about how our metaphors for health and survival are those of the battlefield and the competitive world of business and sports. We "win" or we "lose." Thus we have "weapons" to "conquer" cancer. Thus the obituaries daily give notice of fallen warriors who "lost a long fight with......." Thus we applaud those who "successfully" recover, and call them "super-stars."
How we long to believe it is all within our control, that we can make anything happen. We can avoid feeling wrenching pity for the child born deformed, for the family killed in a plane crash, if we can persuade ourselves that somehow it must have been their responsibility. If only we try hard enough, say the right
incantations, acquire the most lethal "weapons" to banish tragedy, we will be spared a similar fate.
There is an alternative. Instead of weapons, why not tools, to help us heal, to live
and celebrate our life to the fullest? Some years ago I attended a workshop for mental health professionals on the use of visualization to shrink tumors. The
suggested imagery was of tanks running over the cancer cells, machine guns
wiping them out, etc. When several women, including me, objected to the warlike metaphor we were told that our protest was a function of female resistance to owning anger. We had no problem owning and expressing our anger at this interpretation. Mindful of some studies suggesting that the muscle relaxation elicited by gentle,
nurturing imagery enhances the immune system and that the reverse is true of
tension-evoking hostile visualization, we created some alternate imagery:
There is a garden where both lovely flowers and poisonous weeds grow. We water the
flowers and enrich the soil. We do dig up some weeds, and we may use some
chemical spray (taking care not to damage the flowers} but mostly we nourish
the flowers and watch them crowd out the weeds and take over the garden.
In another visualization, malignant cells are seen as aggressive bullies. We disarm
them with the "broken record" technique, repeating over and over:"No, sorry, you can't come in here ..of course you want to very much but it simply isn't allowed...the door is powerful,pounding on it won't help.... the locks are incredibly strong...no matter what you do you can't come in. Just give it up and go away." We imagine the frustrated cancer cells slinking away,wearily muttering, "We're wasting our time. Let's split." Arnold Beisser was not embattled. He did not hate his disability or the prospect of death, and since hate is a necessary component of warfare, he did not go to war.
Did he "fail" in his efforts to recover? To anyone knowing him or reading his remarkable 1970 book “Flying Without Wings” such a notion is absurd. Did his death at age 60 mean that he had "lost his long fight with polio?" More absurdity. It is his response to disability and loss that inspires us; he transformed his tragic
circumstances by going gently.
Is longevity all we aspire to? Do we admire a rose less because it will not
live as long as an oak tree? The Alcohol Anonymous prayer asks for courage to change what can be changed, serenity to accept what cannot, and the wisdom to know the difference. Acquiring that wisdom is surely one of our
most worthy and important goals.
We can appreciate the benefits of medical and cosmetic advances, while honoring age--and eventually death. Integrating those polarities is a path to serenity. We can
cherish life, work tirelessly to find cures and relieve suffering, and look as attractive as possible, while recognizing the truth and beauty of Buddha's words: "Everything that has a beginning has an ending. Make your peace with that and all will be well."
