by Heidi Telpner

     My dad turned 80 this year. He told me the other day that he feels like he's staring down his own mortality. He's remarkably healthy, both physically and mentally, but I guess when you hit that age, it's pretty hard to pretend you have your whole life ahead of you, at least on this plane of existence. My dad's lucky. Most people in our world don't make it to that far. The truth is, death can come at any age. Scary? Of course. Death is the ultimate loss of control, the final frontier. But it's a frontier we are destined to cross and its inevitability actually adds an exquisite immediacy to life.

     For just a moment let's imagine a world without death. Forget about overpopulation because in this imaginary world I'm assuming that if we were immortal we wouldn't be able to reproduce. Here's my question: if we were granted immortality, would life matter? Wrap your mind around the concept. If we were immortal, what would we need? Food? No. Drink? No. Exercise? No. What would we do? Would we obsessively seek out physical stimulation? How many times would it take before you became immune to the thrill of bungee-jumping or sexual encounters or even roller coaster rides? How often could you climb Everest before it lost its edge of danger? Everest is appealing precisely because to climb it is to defy death: to challenge ourselves, to push ourselves beyond our physical limits, to come face to face with our greatest fear.

     What would you do with your eternity? Live at the beach? Get a daily massage and a pedicure? Shop? Read every single book ever written? Remember the gods in Greek mythology? They were so bored with their immortality that they chose to spend most of their time interfering with us mortals. And not always in a good way.

     Many things in life have more meaning for us specifically because we die. Life is precious, poignant, joyous, tragic, amazing beyond words—partly because it is temporary.

     As a hospice nurse I've been privileged to attend many deaths. I've come to view my job as a series of close encounters with the numinous. Every single death is special because every person is special. Every death fills me with awe. I leave each bedside with a greater appreciation for life, for family, for love. As patients approach death, if they can speak, they inevitably tell me that everything falls away except for love. Wherever it is they go after death, I'm confident that love goes with them.

     I hope I don't sound too sanguine about death. If I do, it's partly because of the demands of my job but also because I've come to accept the fact that death is an inevitable part of life. Nonetheless, I don't want to lose my father. I don't want to lose anyone I love. But I've seen worse things. Years ago when I was still working in Intensive Care, I wrote an article for RN Magazine about the way we treat terminal patients in the hospital. It was titled "Chi-Chi or Death." The basis of the article was a joke my husband told me. Two men were hiking through the jungle when they were captured by a tribe of headhunters. The chief of the tribe gave them a choice, chi-chi or death. The first man, thinking nothing could be worse than death, chose chi-chi. The tribe proceeded to torture him for hours before they finally killed him. The second man, after witnessing his friend's horrible ordeal, quickly chose death. The chief thought for a moment then he replied, "Okay death. But first--chi-chi!" That's why I like hospice nursing, we don't put anyone through chi-chi.

Heidi Telpner is the author of ONE FOOT IN HEAVEN,
                        published by The Lotus Circle, a work of nonfiction that chronicles
              her unique experiences as a hospice nurse and her own
 near-death experience as a teenager.