Pat Taub
While I’m an elder, I hadn’t given a lot of thought to dying, that is until my brother, who’s 20 months younger, announced in a recent late-night phone call that he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. (To preserve my brother’s privacy, I’ll refer to him as “G.”)
G calmly described his intentions not to live in an advanced state, which he described as “stuck in a nursing home with applesauce dribbling down the front of my bathrobe.”
G went on to relate how he and his wife have applied for companion-assisted suicide at the Dignitas Center outside of Zurich. (This center is well-known for its compassionate approach to assisted suicide for patients with a terminal disease.) G’s doctor has agreed to advise them when G’s condition warrants making the trip to Zurich.
Example of a room at Dignitas where people end their lives (The Guardian)
When I hung up the phone I let the tears flow, which I had suppressed during our phone conversation. I didn’t want my brother to feel that he had to console me. I felt compelled to model the strength he exhibited.
I screamed at the universe, “Where’s your sense of fairness? Why do you have to lay more bad news on my brother?” G had already lost an infant son and twenty years ago, his first wife. To top it off, his oldest son died just a month ago.
My brother is one of the kindest, gentlest people I’ve ever known. He has always been positive in the bleakest of circumstances. G rarely raises his voice in anger. As a retired civil liberties lawyer, he frequently joins social justice actions in his community.
Deciding that I wanted to spend as much time with my brother as possible before his condition deteriorates, I flew to his home, where I spent a weekend with G and his wife. In a calm, collected manner he discussed how he was trying to live in the present and enjoy each day to the fullest.
My hometown airport, Portland, Maine
I couldn’t comprehend why G didn’t feel frightened or depressed over his diagnosis. Maybe it was gratitude for each day of life after receiving a terminal diagnosis? The physician Gabor Mate calls this response, “The gift of an illness.”
Flying home, I was seized with images of my own death. Suddenly I couldn’t think of anything else.? How do I want to live out my elder years? How can I make them meaningful?
For days these thoughts wove in and out of my head. In the midst of my ruminating, I picked up the April 22-29th issue of the New Yorker where I stumbled upon the article, “No Time to Die,” about Peter Attia, who runs a longevity clinic where uber-wealthy clients spend a fortune for individual profiles prescribing diet, exercise and vitamins designed to prolong their life. This lifestyle is all consuming with demanding exercise schedules, a strict diet and a long list of vitamins.
Attia is part of a nationwide trend of wealthy Boomers obsessed with living as long as possible. Sooner or later their bodies will give out. Then what will they have to show for their last years?
Peter Attia delivering a talk
I can’t get on board with Attia. I reject his approach as self-centered and soulless.
I prefer the model exhibited by my brother for living out his time left. While disciplined about his Y workouts and oatmeal breakfasts, he doesn’t stop there. G’s enlarged his financial contributions to favorite charities like “Doctors Without Borders” while supporting peace and justice groups in his community.
While my brother will be robbed of living into his 90’s, his orientation reminds me of those vigorous 90-year-olds, who have lived lives of service: Jane Goodall, Gloria Steinem and Ralph Nader. What if longevity is more related to soulful living than an obsession with exercise and diet?
Jane Goodall at her 90th birthday party
