Dying is an art*

Dying takes skill

but it is one you must manage without

practice —

Mark playing soccer

leaves the bench for his rotation

face flat on the ground

no heart beat no

second chance

no fuss no muss for him

his family left to sort through

what remains of a life.

Barb slips and falls

a femur spiral fracture

no surgery she insists

out of her mind with pain

but her sister warns

against “too many” drugs

addiction be careful

and then it is too late

be careful what advice you seek

as you take this final journey.

Janet fades with slow dignity

asks her daughters

permission to leave —

Can I?

Yes, mom.

not easy conversations.

she lingers

not her choice…

“I’m ready, my bags are packed,

what’s the hold up with the hearse?”

Annette fades year after year

bones protruding — collarbone, cheeks —

pain a constant companion. No drugs

will stop the constant

flames licking at all of her joints.

And yet

for a visitor she rallies,

smiles — we name it

the podium effect — called on to

perform, she rises to meet

the moment.

And Judith? What about me?

I don’t get to choose and

I don’t know which exit

I would choose if I could.

Bored already

with pain after only a few

months. Could I rise

to some perceived necessity? Would I

leave my family to sort

through my life, discarding

unclaimed remnants? Or would I fade

with dignity, humor

intact to the end?

Breathing is an effort

rewarded. Dying can be effort

or not.

But the reward fades from

the ability to grasp it, pulsing

in and out until the end.

*Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus, “Dying/ Is an art, like everything else…” (1962)