Only conversation worse than dreaded sex talk

 

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!