7: Momento Mori
Back when I was a sloppy, bearded grad student (this differs
from me now… how?), I had a revelatory
moment when one of my teachers, a professor of Victorian literature, challenged
a group of his students: “Sure, the Victorians had a hang-up about sex. It was,
more than anything else, what they were fascinated with, and, as a result, it
was the one thing they couldn’t talk about it. Do you think we don’t have any
taboos any more? Try talking frankly about death and mortality.”
This seemed profound to me back then because I realized
instantly that he was right. In our age and culture, there are basic facts that
everyone is aware of – that the place where we live is a giant ball of metal
and rock, orbiting around a star (in the modern world, we’ve stopped believing
it’s a flat garden, floating between heaven and hell); that we are warm-blooded
mammals like many other creatures around us (not spiritual vessels, crafted by
God out of spit and mud); that, as mammals, we are created in a sexual act
between a male and female member of our species (not delivered from God’s baby
factory by the stork); and that all animals, ourselves included, have finite
lifespans that are limited by (if nothing else) the fact our biological selves
are intrinsically perishable – they age and break down. Most people in our time
are not terribly disturbed by any of these accepted modern truths, except the last
one – the fact that we are intrinsically, unfixably, mortal. Death scares the
you-know-what out of us, but we must not say so.
An interesting visualization of how short it is. More at: Wait but Why |
Denial makes us look stupid – stupid like an old man eating
kale shakes for breakfast and hauling his bony ass out on a hot day, risking
life, painful dehydration and limb by running a 10K, “for fun.” Curiously, our Victorian
(and earlier) forefathers and foremothers had much less trouble with this, in
part because infirmity and death from disease was so much more obvious in their
lives (especially in childhood and past 40) and partially because they had a
much more pervasive and convincing cultural mythos to counter the reality of death
– their Christian religion, and the belief in an afterlife. (To see how
important religion was to human sanity back then, re-read Arnold’s “Dover
Beach” or Tennyson’s “In Memoriam” and see how unhinged the poets got when the
truth of their religions were threatened.) Victorians hated death just as much
as any modern hipster, but they couldn’t deny their mortality either, so they used
really effective work-arounds to deal with it psychologically.
By and large, our modern science-based culture has removed
the comforting psychological dodge of metaphysical religious myth-reality from
our lives (as Matthew Arnold bemoans),
and, though we still often “believe in God” (for the record, I do), we no longer live with a generally
accepted religious conviction convincing us that death is not the end of
everything. Though I’m a Catholic now, I
grew up in a non-religious household, and was never taught to believe that when
I died I would simply go to heaven. I don’t remember when I first learned about
death and accepted what it meant, but I do know that I was ghoulishly
fascinated by it (as I said in a previous essay, I was a weird kid) and I guess
I still am. One of my earliest memories
– probably about first grade – involves me cruelly reducing to tears a slightly
younger friend by telling him all about death, a fact his parents had protected
him from until then. He needed to
know the basic truth, so I told him. Later, traveling with my parents in Europe
and being lectured by my father on various historical figures, I always wanted
to know first “how did they die?” I was a pretty creepy kid, I guess, but it
seemed to me to be one of the most important facts in any person’s story. I was
personally pretty proud of my knowledge of reality and of my no-nonsense
acceptance of all that.
Of course I was a kid and, with no long, deep experience
with life, I had a secret personal conviction that I was immortal. When you are
a kid growing up in modern America, with adequate food, hygene and healthcare,
death is not a threat, and if you are aware it is coming, it is a long, long way off. Death is so far distant to
us in our callous youth as to be abstract. Sure, we see death when our
grandparents (or other aged relatives or acquaintances) die, but they are so
different from us as to be a different species -- like our pets are. Maybe, if
tragedy strikes and a parent or a close acquaintance at school happens to die,
then it becomes more real to us, but otherwise, not. Most of us go into
adulthood with this secret conviction and, unlike most other childish things,
we don’t necessarily put it aside.
However, as I went from adolescence to adulthood, there were
things in my own life that made my own mortality increasingly real to me. My
parents were older than most other people I know (I am the last child in my
family, born when my mother was 43) and their health was more tenuous – my
father, a heavy smoker, had serious emphysema most of my childhood. Their
parents were really old – one grandparent died when I was an infant, two more when
I was pre-puberty and my mother’s father came to live with us in my early
teenage years, and moved to a nursing home before I went to college. I
understood that people aged and died and saw it happening all around me. Old
age, in particular, really made an impression on me. I couldn’t imagine ever
being there myself (as Paul Simon says in his song “Old Friends,” – “how
terribly strange to be seventy…”) but I saw it wasn’t fun. As the saying goes,
it’s “not for sissies.” Mortality, I saw, was not the mythical creature us
young people all wanted to believe it was.
And it was coming. Pretty early in adulthood, I started
marveling at how other people seemed to be in denial of what we all knew was
inevitable. I graduated from college in 1977, and the last quarter of the
Twentieth Century saw the birth of the “Health and Personal Fitness” culture.
For the first time, medical science thought it had some basic advice that
medical researchers and doctors thought could help people live “longer,
healthier and more productive lives,” so they started to publicize lots of
useful tips: stop smoking; stop drinking heavily; don’t do drugs; lose weight;
lower your cholesterol; lower your blood pressure; sleep better; get more
exercise; cut down your fat, salt, sugar (and later) carbohydrate intake; eat
more vegetables; eat less meat; eat less processed foods; eat more organic
foods; eat more anti-oxidants; etc., etc. Of course, people didn’t really
understand the medical science behind most of this (and, though I won’t go into
it, a lot of the medical “findings” behind these pieces of information were
incomplete, not proven by valid studies or simply wrong), but they did get this
message: you can control things and fix your body.
In the culture I entered into adulthood in, the next step in
this thinking was to begin privately believing, contrary to common sense, that
somehow we might be able to escape aging, perhaps cheat death itself. Hence, a
culture of extreme fitness began to flourish, with people doing distance running,
bicycle racing, rigorous exercise routines and competitive contact sports
(baseball, basketball, tennis and even football and rugby) long past the point
(late thirties and early 40s) when their biomechanics (joints, tendons, muscles
and bones – not to mention the cardiovascular system) could handle the strain.
People began exercising to be healthy in unhealthy ways. They also began to
take healthy diet ideas to fairly bizarre extremes: vegetarianism, veganism,
fad diets, dietary supplements of dubious effectiveness (along with this came
“Health Food” stores that essentially sold patent medicines and magical cures,
all unsanctioned by the FDA or the medical establishment). In short (I may be offending you by saying this
so bluntly), we began doing irrational things and performing what amounts to
magical rituals in our desperation to stay alive and healthy.
I’m afraid my response to this is pretty irreverent: you may
not want to believe in old age and death, but they believe in you.
Delusion is history, history is delusion
I’ve got more to say about this, but before I do I want to
take a side-trip into human history, because I think it explains the roots of almost
universal human foolishness. The very development of our species has been
driven by the desire to extend human life and thus has pushed us towards denial
of aging and death.
Paleoanthropologists say we physically became what we are
somewhere between 200,000 and 100,000 years ago, though a general group of
human-like creatures had been loping around Africa and Eurasia for perhaps a
million years. 100,000 years ago, we were scavengers, foragers and crude
hunters living in small bands, using crude stone tools, and our normal
(“natural”) healthy lifespan (assuming we weren’t eaten by a predator or had an
accident, suffered from natural disaster or caught a disease (diseases were
rarer because there were fewer of us) was a little over 30 years –after which
aging began affecting our fitness and it was increasingly hard to survive.
However, this is only the fossil record of the beginning of our species – I
think (and some anthropologists agree with me) that the real beginnings of our
species was a little later – sometime around 80 to 70 thousand years ago, when
we first began to show signs of “culture” – programmed information for living
that could be passed on from generation to generation, probably occasioned by
the development of real language, which provided a mechanism for passing on
important complicated accrued information – aka, “wisdom.” Language and culture
allowed us to learn and preserve very useful information about dealing with the
world and surviving, including more sophisticated tools, weapons (carved bone
tools first appeared at this time – they are not easy to make) and other early
technologies. This passed-on knowledge and culture probably didn’t extend our
lifespans much, but it did allow more of us to survive and to spread out across
the planet in search of more territory we could adapt to (by developing more
culture) and exploit.
Until circa 10,000 years ago, this is how we rolled. |
The first potential jump in human lifespan (it didn’t happen
for everyone, in fact archaeologists say lifespan probably went down overall
because of increased density and disease) happened sometime around 20 to 15
thousand years ago, when we developed agriculture and stopped being nomadic.
This, I imagine, created the first glimmer in the human mind of the possibility
of living into something like “old age.”
We then began living in villages with their own food sources in farm
fields, and we could abandon the physically demanding nomadic lifestyle without
starving. Living in villages, old people could exist with the support of
others, perhaps even making valuable contributions to the tribe/community
through their accumulated skills and wisdom. As living to old age became
possible, it also became something to strive for. What “old age” meant here, of
course, is not what we mean today. Even into modern times, someone over 40 was
considered “senior” and in early urban societies it is doubtful that anyone
lived beyond 60.
An old Roman. About 40? |
As urbanized human culture, supported by agricultural
technology, developed and perfected
itself between Ur (about 10,000 years ago) and Rome (2,000 years ago) – with
roughly similar timeframes in Asia – average human lifespans didn’t increase much
(Thomas Hobbes in the 17th Century was still describing the normal
human life as “nasty, brutish and short”) but what did develop was a class of
people who might be expected to fare better – nobles and kings, an aristocracy.
These people still didn’t usually live to what we now consider to be old age
(because no human was immune to disease) but they still had the possibility of
a significantly longer life, and that was perhaps the greatest perk of being a
noble, and something to aspire to. Once it was possible to live better and
longer, it was something everybody naturally wanted.
“Hope” was born, but it was only a slightly longer life --
not anything like immortality -- that any human could hope for right up to the
20th Century. Living standards began to improve for many with the
industrial revolution, and death by starvation generally went away as a threat
in the “developed” world, but death through disease and infection still stalked
the homes of kings, the rich and the poor alike. Everybody knew that death was
coming. With the advent of modern medicine, particularly with the development
of antibiotics in the 20th Century, however, suddenly lifespans (in
the developed world took a big leap forward. This was “the miracle of modern
medicine,” but with miracles comes the belief in magic.
Give me liberty and give me death
I’m fully aware that what I’ve been saying in the five
paragraphs above is ridiculously simplistic, and pretty inaccurate, unsupported
by specific facts, etc., but my basic point is that the development of human
civilization has been all about finding ways to extend human survival, which
has meant teaching society that it could be extended, which is pointing us towards
the false hope that it can be extended forever.
We’ve been building towards this delusion for thousands of years, and
you can feel the social pressure to believe in it. If you read “speculative
fiction” (fantasy and science fiction), then you know that immortality is a
very common theme, perhaps the most
common theme, whether the plot involves vampires or cyborgs or biotech. It’s
what we all desperately want because it’s what we have been working towards for
so, so long.
But can we have it? Sure, someone will talk to you about
aging research and try to tell you otherwise, but realistically I don’t’ think so – certainly not in the lifetimes of
anyone reading this at the present moment. You may want to “believe in the
future,” but if you do, I’ve got a freezer for your disembodied head in
Scottsdale, Arizona that you can spend a couple of hundred thousand dollars on…
until the company goes bankrupt and they turn the power off. No, we can’t just
turn off cell death. No, your mind isn’t some static data file (like the file
this essay is written on) that can be uploaded onto a server someplace. As
Eliot says in the fantasy movie “ET” –
“this is reality, Greg!” – and I don’t think anyone will ever be able to give
you a re-write of the basic story. What I’m saying once again: you, I and
everyone else is “doomed to die” (poem by Sauron) and we’d better get used to
it. Yes, it’s a big bummer.
So why be so unpleasant and keep saying this, when delusion
is so much friendlier and easier to work with?
I’m not sure that I’m completely advocating for living with brutal
truth, but I also see some huge problems in living with delusion.
I’m overweight (I like to eat and find food fun and
comforting), which is not currently life-threatening for me (perhaps…) but is
certainly not healthy. As a consequence, I feel a certain amount of
disapproval, unspoken and spoken, and even occasional shaming from the considerably
more health-obsessed people around me. I should go on a diet, change my
lifestyle, learn a new regimen for survival, I’m told, like this is a spiritual
failing. “Don’t you want to live to see your grandchildren?” (For the record,
none of my children has expressed any interest to date in producing any.) “You
don’t want to die do you?” No, like you, of course I don’t… at least not right
away. Life good. Death… well, not great.
But here’s what I’m thinking when some well-intentioned person is
shaming me: rather than bullying me into following your “healthy” (is it
really?) diet while you exercise your aging body into orthoscopic surgery -- please stop and think a bit about where all
this is leading.
As I said, I’m a late child, and, consequently I have seen
first hand a lot of aging and death. I’ve seen grandparents grow old, go into
nursing homes and slowly die. I’ve seen the same thing with parents and
inlaws. What I’ve seen is that we don’t
live forever… ever, and we don’t die easily. What happens to most of us who
live to “ripe old age,” unless we succumb to slow death by cancer or fairly
rapid death by heart disease or a rare illness or accident, is that we end up
needing (often imposed on us necessarily by our children, against our
irrational aging wills) some kind of long-term nursing care, which (I can’t
sugar-coat this) is the opposite of a pleasant and dignified end. I know this
is not everyone, but I have lived with three different aging relatives who all
fervently wished to die years before they finally did. I could go into really graphic detail, but I
won’t be that cruel. Other people are fortunate, I guess, in that their minds
go before their bodies, and they don’t know the grueling end (though their
children do). Is this what you are denying yourself pasta for or running that
daily mile in order to be able to experience? I didn’t think so. Sure, you
don’t want to die, but how do you
want to die when it inevitably comes?
Death is an important detail of life. Think about it. I do.
OK, it doesn’t make me happy or even re-assure me to dwell
on this, but it also doesn’t scare me and I’d prefer not to be ruled by fear.
The one thing I want out of life is not control,
but some calm awareness of how I’m living, some intentionality. A sane,
thinking person knows there is no such thing as control… but there is such a thing as understanding and
meaning. If I give into delusion for comfort, I will know somewhere at the heart of myself
that I’m living a fiction. Perhaps, as I’ve been saying occasionally in these
essays, such a fiction is unavoidable, but I’d prefer not to totally give in to
that.
Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas: Momento
mori
“Vanitas” by Jan Sande van Hemessan |
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