Back
when magazines were still a thing, I used to read Maclean’s regularly.
There was one section at the back I would not miss,
appropriately called The End.
This
was, in essence, a souped-up obituary about
someone who had a somewhat interesting life
story. I say “somewhat” because it was less about their life than
about... how can I say this delicately? ...how
they passed. Some were about notable people,
but most were about regular folks who happened
to have an interesting end. Hence, the title.
The
piece made it clear on how the person
died, and always in the last paragraph. That’s what
kept you reading. In this way, it was different than an obituary, where
you may have to parse through each sentence to figure out
how exactly the person passed – and yes, I want to know! There was no
ambiguity in this write up. It kept you reading until the very end,
at which time you would inevitably think to yourself: “Wow,
so sad... and yet so ironic.”
The
means of death always carried some form of irony that fit nicely with
the person’s life story. To this day, twenty years later, I still remember
some of the write-ups. They went something like this:
“Ted was a selfless soul. When
he was 35, coming home from church, he heard screams from a nearby
house that was on fire. Without hesitation, he rushed in to save a
woman and her children from the hungry flames. He became a
home-town hero. [Skip to last paragraph.] Ted was asleep
when the fire broke out in his home. He died from smoke
inhalation.”
I’m obviously
skipping over all the good parts of the life story that were far more
descriptive, but like I said, it was really all about the
end. Here’s another memorable one:
“Margaret enjoyed spending time
in the woods since she was a young child. Nature was an integral part
of her life. She lived off the land, feeding her family with what she
could grow and gather in the forest near her home in rural
Ontario. [Skip to last paragraph.] One afternoon
she misidentified some wild mushrooms that she boiled and
ate for dinner. She died in the hospital six hours later.”
I couldn’t help but wonder why
friends and family would ever submit these
stories. I’m sure they felt honoured that their loved one
was featured in a prominent Canadian magazine. But did they ever
realize their story was chosen not because of their loved one’s life,
but because of how they died?
Here’s another
one (because I know you want it): “Dave lived for running. All his life,
he made fitness his number one priority. Whenever not at work, he
would train for marathons all over the world. [Skip to last
paragraph.] One morning in June, as Dave prepared
for a short jog, he fell face-down on the
pavement. An autopsy revealed that all his internal
organs had failed him.” (I may have embellished this one.)
I
confess, I've got a morbid fascination with how people
die. I’ve heard it’s not uncommon. Some read
obituaries for fun. Others ponder the afterlife. Our fascination
with death comes because it is so final. Perhaps at middle age,
I think of it more, but rarely do I openly talk about it.
The conversation never seems to go anywhere. It may start with, "Honey,
when I die–" but it inevitably, abruptly ends with my wife saying,
"You're not going to die." And then we watch Survivor.
Talking
about death can be as difficult as talking about the birds and the bees to
your children. We put it off for as long as possible. Perhaps
because our lives are so long. Unlike in the Middle Ages, when
the dead were piling up in the streets (based on a reliable Monty Python film),
you can now go years without having to attend a funeral. What an
incredible achievement of modern healthcare and sanitation! Our
present day is nothing at all like the misery humans have had to endure
throughout history.
It
can at times make us feel invincible, of which we of course are not.
The end is
always near.
What,
too dark? Ah, go watch Survivor!
