Dying at home in old-time Phoenix


Even though I've lived for quite a while (over six decades, in fact!) I don't recall anyone dying at home. Of course, I haven't paid much attention to death and dying, so I'm sure it's happened, but I've been thinking about it today, and I don't recall. There are a couple of reasons for this. If you don't mind me talking about death, I'd like to right now. If you'd rather not, I understand, too.

The culture that I've grown up with, starting in Minneapolis, and now in Phoenix, Arizona, simply doesn't talk about death. It's considered morbid. Even my fascination with my family's genealogy creeped out some family members because I would put up photos on the wall, nicely framed, when I found them, of dead people. Death is relegated to Halloween, or it's seen as a cartoon thing, as action heroes spray machine gun bullets in movies. The reality of it is ignored, as if it didn't happen. That's reason one.

The other reason is the attitude of always fighting for life. I grew up without a fatalist attitude towards death - there could always be a chance, an operation, an experimental drug, more tests, anything. "Never say die" is how I was raised, and it's part of the reason that I'm a survivor. And I will live a long life, I have no doubt of that. I'm in spectacular physical condition, I take my meds, I eat my Cheerios. And yes, I look both ways before crossing the street (VERY important in Phoenix!). But I will die one day, we all will. And since I've made the choice to not end my days in a hospital, assuming I don't get run over in a crosswalk, I'll die here at home, in Glendale, a suburb of Phoenix. And this fills me with great peace.

So of course I'm thinking of the people who have died at home in old-time Phoenix, and the attitude towards that. And even though I don't have any statistics or anything, I know that a lot more people died at home back in the day than nowadays. Yes, many of them would have lived longer if they had had access to our modern medicine, but they didn't. That was then. The medicine they had was, of course, modern, but no one lives forever, no matter how miraculous the medicine.

Death is so taboo, so alien, that when it happens it doesn't seem natural. I have a dog that's nearing the end of a good long life and it's been very difficult for me to be strong. I wonder if I would be stronger if I grew up at a time when the goose you ate for Thanksgiving was walking around the day before? Or if I knew of an elderly person who simply never left the house ever again, except in a coffin?

The best thing that I can do is to read things, and talk to people. I try not to talk about death, but sometimes it bubbles out of me, in anger and frustration. And a very wise man once simply said to me, "We aren't supposed to live forever".

Excuse me, I think I'll go step outside and take a look at that gorgeous Arizona sky. And if it's the last thing I see, I'll be well contented.
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