In medias res

I just read the eulogy for Steve Jobs, written by his sister, Mona Simpson. It's beautiful; it speaks to his unique character and personality well. But I was struck by how much it resonated for me — not that Sandy was like Steve Jobs, per se, but that she, too, had been ill and yet her death was unexpected; that her best friend and I sat over her bed and looked at each other, wondering whether each breath would be her last; that during her final weeks, she was still planning projects and trips and adventures.

Simpson wrote, "We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories."

I've been insisting that Sandy shouldn't have died because there were things she wanted to do, events she wanted to attend, projects she wanted to finish — or start. But I think now that those are all good things. She was still participating in life, still thinking and feeling and wanting, not just marking time.

Sandy, navigating the path through Boyden Cavern in May.
She'd been nauseated on the drive, and had a hard time
making the steep climb up to the cave's entrance. She told me
later that as we started the tour, she was saying to herself,
"Don't fall. Don't puke. Don't fall. Don't puke."
But soon, her curiosity and intellect overcame nausea
and fatigue and she had a great time.

I rail against her dying in part because it seemed so sudden to us, this shift in expectation from simply switching chemo regimens to finding we'd run out of options. It seemed so brutal, so shocking. But in many ways, we were fortunate. Sandy was able to be herself, fully independent and autonomous, fully engaged (though often in pain), until thirty-three days before she died. Thirty-three days out of nearly 51 years isn't bad.

Better to be making plans, having dreams, plotting adventures, and engaging in life up to the end than to have stopped long before the breath and heartbeats cease.

(The eulogy to Steve Jobs is here.)