In this blog I have tried from the outset to keep it mostly clinical, and definitely to spare mentioning anyone by name, etc. Obviously all this talk about terminal liver failure, family meetings, and at what point should they pull the plug on me is very sad and overwhelming for me and my family. And, fittingly, just as I typed that last line, a doctor from the palliative care team came into my room (it has been a non-stop busy day). I have also just made a will, finally, and got it witnessed and I hope it is good enough. It is certainly simple enough.
When I was meditating in Thailand at Suan Mokkh, I heard various lectures from the monks there. The worst public speaker was Ajarn Poh - the abbot of the monastery there. His talks were always in a flat monotone that made it very hard to pay attention. But later, I must admit his talks stuck with me more than any others. He talked about impermanence and suffering - basically the idea that life is flowing onward and both good things and bad things will all pass eventually, and that the ego that gets attached to things/events/people/etc will suffer. I like to build sandcastles, so this made a lot of sense to me. Well, at the time I only thought about impermanence within life, but now I find my mind is brought back to this idea. I am thinking about the impermanence of my own life, and the death not only of my body, but also of my ego, my self image, of me.
Being closer to death does not seem to bring any greater understanding of it. The death of "me" (self/ego/etc) is still quite soundly beyond my comprehension. I can say how it makes me feel: if it were not for my empathy and sympathy of the suffering of the people who will mourn for me, then I wouldn't really be too sad at all about the prospect of my own death. I've had an interesting and good life, I am satisfied, and I have no regrets or grudges or lingering anything. Well, the big exception is that I wanted to have many more years of happy love with my wife - but that is something that would have happened in the future - not a regret of the past. And that is what I mean about empathy and sympathy for the people who will mourn for me. When I cry, and indeed I have been crying a lot since being diagnosed 6 months ago, it is certainly not because I mourn my own death, it is that I am sad now, in the present, thinking about people who will be sad in the future after I die.
Well, I don't want to be too depressing, things are still very unknown. My liver might be ok, relatively, and might not give out on me just yet. I hope to still get out of hospital and go home and start taking Tarceva® - maybe get another 6 months out of this Lachlan-life. Or maybe hit the one in a million jackpot and shrink my tumour down to a pea.
