Three years ago, at the age of 34, Kim got the worst kind of news. As she wrote on her blog, Aquarius vs Cancer, "I’ve got lung cancer and I’m not very happy about it. It pretty much sucks."
Kim and I met through my dear friend Marcy. When Marcy got her terminal cancer diagnosis she became passionate about connecting with others who were exceptional - exceptional for the early age of their confrontation with mortality, exceptional for their approach to this unbidden "new normal".
I wasn't too surprised to find an email in my in-box from Kim a few months back: "So. I'm wondering if we could meet up and talk about end of life planning? I'm just trying to get my ducks in a row."
As she'd written on her blog, "I’m the kind of girl who likes to know where I stand at all times. I’m often most uncomfortable when I don’t know what I think or feel on a particular topic or subject."
We met and agreed that I would create a customized set of questions to support Kim in thinking through what she wanted to have happen around and after her death. I lent her my copy of Stephen Jenkinson's slim work book, How It All Could Be, which he describes as "part meditation and part guided study – that begins the deep human project of learning what dying well could be, and what dying asks of us all... for anyone trying to approach dying with soul and intelligence intact."
I worried that my list of questions, coupled with the Jenkinson booklet, might produce paralysis. Not for Kim. When she found it daunting, what did she do? She invited 12 of her closest friends to come to her home on a Friday night for pizza, wine, and a conversation about death. Hers. And theirs.
I was privileged to observe this tender, brave, joy- and grief-filled gathering. They laughed, a lot. They cried. They told stories. They shared answers they didn't know they had. They wondered together. And through it all, Kim presided from a cushion on the floor of her fabulously smart mid-century living room, keeping the group working through the questions she'd culled:
Part 1
Part 2
A few days later Kim reported "feeling very good about things today." She was busy typing up her notes and said, "It would have been impossible for me to get the same high quality results answering these questions on my own." What struck me most about that night was that Kim had invited us all to begin exercising our grief muscle, to cultivate this neglected capacity in the company of others.
One more thing about how Kim convened her friends: True to her take on life, she opened the gathering not with a focus on the tragic, but with this playful, provocative point of view on the larger arc of our existence.
Kim and I met through my dear friend Marcy. When Marcy got her terminal cancer diagnosis she became passionate about connecting with others who were exceptional - exceptional for the early age of their confrontation with mortality, exceptional for their approach to this unbidden "new normal".
I wasn't too surprised to find an email in my in-box from Kim a few months back: "So. I'm wondering if we could meet up and talk about end of life planning? I'm just trying to get my ducks in a row."
As she'd written on her blog, "I’m the kind of girl who likes to know where I stand at all times. I’m often most uncomfortable when I don’t know what I think or feel on a particular topic or subject."
We met and agreed that I would create a customized set of questions to support Kim in thinking through what she wanted to have happen around and after her death. I lent her my copy of Stephen Jenkinson's slim work book, How It All Could Be, which he describes as "part meditation and part guided study – that begins the deep human project of learning what dying well could be, and what dying asks of us all... for anyone trying to approach dying with soul and intelligence intact."
I worried that my list of questions, coupled with the Jenkinson booklet, might produce paralysis. Not for Kim. When she found it daunting, what did she do? She invited 12 of her closest friends to come to her home on a Friday night for pizza, wine, and a conversation about death. Hers. And theirs.
I was privileged to observe this tender, brave, joy- and grief-filled gathering. They laughed, a lot. They cried. They told stories. They shared answers they didn't know they had. They wondered together. And through it all, Kim presided from a cushion on the floor of her fabulously smart mid-century living room, keeping the group working through the questions she'd culled:
Part 1
- Discussion: What defines a “full life”?
- Discussion: What would you do if you had one day to live? What do your answers say about your values, convictions, soul....
- How would you describe me?
- How would you describe my essence in one word?
- Do any songs remind you of me?
- Have I taught you anything?
- What do you think you will remember most about me? What would be my legacy?
Part 2
- Discussion: Do you want an end-of-life gathering? If so, what do you call it?
- Do any of you want to speak* at my end-o-life service? *rules apply
- I will be cremated. Would people like to dispose of their own bit of my ashes?
- Would any of you want to attend my cremation?
- Discussion: What happens when you die? When, what, and who do your opinions come from?
- What will people miss about me?
- Do you have any memorable moments that involve me?
- Discussion: When does the transition from “I will die” to “I am dying” happen?
A few days later Kim reported "feeling very good about things today." She was busy typing up her notes and said, "It would have been impossible for me to get the same high quality results answering these questions on my own." What struck me most about that night was that Kim had invited us all to begin exercising our grief muscle, to cultivate this neglected capacity in the company of others.
One more thing about how Kim convened her friends: True to her take on life, she opened the gathering not with a focus on the tragic, but with this playful, provocative point of view on the larger arc of our existence.
In my next life I want to live my life backwards. You start out dead and get that out of the way. Then you wake up in an old people's home feeling better every day. You get kicked out for being too healthy, go collect your pension, and then when you start work, you get a gold watch and a party on your first day. You work for 40 years until you're young enough to enjoy your retirement. You party, drink alcohol, and are generally promiscuous, then you are ready for high school. You then go to primary school, you become a kid, you play. You have no responsibilities, you become a baby until you are born. And then you spend your last 9 months floating in luxurious spa-like conditions with central heating and room service on tap, larger quarters every day and then Voila! You finish off as an orgasm! ~ Woody Allen
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