Hunger to Live

Is life worth living no matter what?

I sat at a table with a couple of men I hadn’t seen in over twenty years, and each of them took a turn explaining the frightening treatments they’d endured that saved their lives from horrific illness. (I’m sorry. I know that at a certain age, people have a reputation for talking about their health but, good grief, the things we’re expected to endure should be unendurable. Of course we’re going to talk about it.)

Photo by Ilnur Kalimullin on Unsplash

I would not have recognized them on the street, aside from their voices. It was just there, in this familiar setting that I knew them. It’s interesting to me that voices don’t change that much, not as much as physical appearance.

I have very little poker face and I haven’t figured out how to fix that. At least I didn’t run. I’m a terribly large medical wimp, so hearing about esophageal stretching, and teeth falling out after radiation was a lot for me. I’ve just recently stopped needing nitrous oxide at the dentist so I’m not at the level of acceptance these men are. Anyway, what I was thinking showed in my expression. I apologized for what they’d suffered.

Then each of them said things that seemed exaggerated in light of their torturous treatment: “But I’m alive!” “I’m still here! It’s incredible.” “Life is good!”

Now I, who think about mortality a bit, should not be surprised by their sentiments. This is exactly what they were doing: realizing how wonderful life is in the face of its temporary status. They were delighted that all the horrors of medicine had kept them around for a bit longer. One of them had been given only a 20 percent chance of survival after his diagnosis and he’s lived at least five years since then. I’d like to say his happiness is contagious and a testament to good medicine, but it’s not what I was thinking.

My husband and I know someone else near the same age who had the same diagnosis and treatment as one of these men. A month after the procedure, he shot himself in the head in his basement. I don’t know why he would do it after the surgery rather than before. Why go through it? My guess is that he was in an incredible amount of pain, more than he’d anticipated or been forewarned about from the surgery.

This is a level of tolerance people have for frightening and potentially risky medical intervention that my little nitrous oxide defense wouldn’t touch. Remember that annoying saying people sometimes use in difficult situations? Something like, “You’re never given more than you can handle.” I’m reaching an age where I sure hope that’s true because my bravery for life’s emotional challenges doesn’t seem to apply to the physical hits so many of us take in old age.

What is quality of life?

I suspect it’s different for us all. At what point is “But I’m alive!” not good enough to endure what’s coming at you? I wonder what the man who took his life would have experienced if he’d just refused the treatment. Could it have been worse than what led him to the basement? It’s a big gamble with terrible consequences and if you make the wrong choice, you’re on your own with next steps.

For me, quality of life reflects all the things I experience right now. I guess that’s my own kind of gratitude practice for realizing I’ve got a good quality of life. I can do all the things we humans are capable of, and I do it surrounded by love. Which of those things could I part with and still feel that being alive is enough? I don’t know. Maybe there is no limit to what I’d trade for life if the time for choosing came.

But then my distrust in my own strength causes me to doubt. Is bravery the thing that leads you to more challenging experiences? That’s the idea behind that saying that you’ll only get what you can truly handle. If that’s the case, I’m telling you right now I can’t handle it because I don’t want any tests. Maybe my belief that I can’t handle much is like a vaccination against intolerable ailments. (Yes, I know that’s ridiculous. I’m grasping for the ever-elusive security here.)

One of the men could only eat three things. I won’t tell you what they were but believe me, you wouldn’t want them every day. His daily life, at least from my remote view, seems difficult and a bit depressing. But he was filled with joy. Laughing. Reminding me past funny encounters we’d shared. Sharp and witty. Engaged and social. Were drugs involved, I wondered, or did his confrontation with mortality inject him with delight?

I’m just admitting this to you because I’m not sure I have the level of reverence for life that these people do, the level I’m supposed to have. And it surprises me to think that because I like my life. I enjoy every day. There’s no reason for me not to. But I worry that if I’m ever in their situation, I wouldn’t hold up to it at all. So maybe my wimpiness is not just reserved for medical procedures. Maybe it extends to the really horrific challenges in life too. I don’t know. Perhaps, if you asked those men how they would feel about facing what they did in the years long before they actually had to, they would also say, “No way.”

And there’s one more possibility that occurs to me. Perhaps all my thinking that anything is possible, including some kind of delightful next experience after this life is over, makes me feel less worried about facing that unknown when the time comes. Maybe there’s a little blip on our way to the next journey. It’s a comfort to imagine a good possibility and that’s really all we have.

What I know for sure is that I’m one of you. This mortal experience sometimes comes with a little more than we think we can handle. We won’t know until we know. But I’m glad to explore all of it right here with your company. Thanks for reading. And I hope we’re all back for more after another week of all that’s good in life.

Take care.