Dying taught me to live

The gift

I was blessed. I was told I had three months to live.

You think that to put those two sentences back to back, I must be joking. Or crazy. Perhaps that I lived a miserable, unfulfilled life, and the sooner it was done the better.

Hardly. I loved my life. Adored my family. Enjoyed my friends, the career I had, the big-hearted organisations I was part of, the golf I played. And I'm quite sane. And also quite serious: the verdict I received the last week of May 2005 - that it was unlikely I'd make it to my daughter Gina's first day of eighth grade, the opening week of September - turned out to be a gift. Honestly.

Because I was forced to think seriously about my own death. Which meant I was forced to think more deeply about my life than I'd ever done. Unpleasant as it was, I forced myself to acknowledge that I was in the final stage of life, forced myself to decide how to spend my last 100 days (give or take a few weeks), forced myself to act on those decisions.

In short, I asked myself to answer two questions: must the end of life be the worst part? And, can it be made a constructive experience - even the best part of life?

No. Yes. That's how I would answer those questions, respectively. I was able to approach the end while still mentally lucid (usually) and physically fit (sort of), with my loved ones near.

As I said: a blessing.

Of course, almost no one thinks in detail about one's actual death. Until I had to, I didn't - not really. We feel general and profound anxiety about it, but figuring out the nuts and bolts of how to make the best of one's last days, and then how to ensure that one follows the planned course of action for the benefit of oneself and one's loved ones, are not typical habits of the dying, and most certainly not of the healthy and hearty. Some people don't think about death because it comes suddenly and prematurely. Quite a few who die this way - in a car accident, say - had not yet even begun to think of themselves as mortal. My death, on the other hand, while somewhat premature (I was 53 at the time of the verdict) could not be called sudden (anyway, you couldn't call it that two weeks after the death sentence had sunk in), since I was informed quite explicitly that my final day on this earth would happen during 2005.

Some people don't think about how to make the most of their last stage because, by the time their end has clearly come upon them, they are no longer in a position, mental or physical, to make of their final days what they might have. Relief of pain is their primary concern.

Not me. I would not suffer like that. Starting weeks before the diagnosis, when atypical (if largely unnoticed) things began happening to me, I had no pain, not an ounce.

Later, I was told that the very end would be similarly free of pain. The shadows that had begun very slowly to darken my mind would lengthen, just as they do on the golf course in late afternoon, that magical time, my favourite time to be out there. The light would flatten. The hole - the object of my focus - would become gradually harder and harder to pick out. Eventually it would be difficult even to name. Brightness would fade. I would lapse into a coma. Night would fall. I would die.

Because of the factors surrounding my dying - my relative youth, my continued possession of mental facility and otherwise good physical health, my freedom from daily pain and the proximity of loved ones, most of whom were themselves still in their prime - I took a different approach to my last 100 days, one that required that I keep my eyes as wide open as possible. Even with blurry vision.

Oh, yes... there was one more factor, probably the primary one, that influenced the way I approached my demise: my brain. The way I thought. First as an accountant, then as an ambitious businessman, and finally as the CEO of KPMG. My sensibilities about work and accomplishment, about consistency and continuity and commitment, were so ingrained in me from my professional life, and had served me so well in that life, that I couldn't imagine not applying them to my final task. Just as a successful executive is driven to be as strategic and prepared as possible to "win" at everything, so I was now driven to be as methodical as possible during my last hundred days. I hoped to make it a positive experience for those around me, as well as the best three months of my life.

I was a lucky guy.

The good goodbye

There were things to accomplish while I was able. The most important of these was saying goodbye.

One of my tasks before I died was to "unwind", or close - or, as I saw it, beautifully resolve - my personal relationships. But why did I want to? Why would anyone want to make some kind of part-symbolic, part-literal break with all the people he had enjoyed and loved? I soon found out that not everyone with whom I attempted closure understood why I was doing it, or agreed with how I was doing it. But as soon as I started the process, it felt right. And it made me think that other people, especially those with much more than three months left (for example, several decades), could benefit from the approach I took, or at least modify it to make it their own.

The four reasons why I did it: I thought it would bring me and those with whom I was unwinding more pleasure than unhappiness (and, believe me, I realised just how much unhappiness would be involved). It would occupy me in an important way, making me think deeply about things I felt I should think about, things most people probably should think about. I was hard-wired by temperament and training for closure. And last, and certainly not least, I could.

Let's start with the first reason: it would bring me and those with whom I was unwinding more pleasure than unhappiness.

This is really a two-parter. First, how could it bring me great pleasure? Simple. As I wrote down my list of people, those I intended to contact and plan a final encounter with, I stopped at each name and made myself recall, in the closest detail possible, all the moments the two of us had enjoyed together. How we met. What made us become friends in the first place. The qualities in them I particularly appreciated. The lessons I'd learnt by knowing them. The ways in which having met him or her had made me a better person.

In short, the exercise forced me to do the very thing that wiser people every now and then advise us to do - that is, to stop and look up long enough to think about the people we love and why we love them, and to go and tell them explicitly how we feel, because who knows when that opportunity will disappear for ever?

The unwindings also made me feel good because they allowed me to remind myself of all the people whose lives I had touched, even if in a very small way. While quantity is not the end-all, I was surprised at how many people I came up with - and were you to try this exercise, you too might be surprised by your deceptively large circle. The sheer volume brought me tremendous fulfilment.

Part two of the first point: how could these unwindings really bring more pleasure than unhappiness to the other guy - or any pleasure at all? Wasn't I pushing miserable reality on him? Wasn't I asking her to do something that maybe she wanted no part of ? (And not even asking, really, but practically commanding, since I was, after all, the one who was dying.) Wouldn't quite a few of those on my closure list want very little to do with me - or, if not me, technically, then the mortality I represented?

As it turned out... no.

Sad and occasionally troubling as it was for some people to correspond with me one last time, or to have one final meal with me, or to take a last walk in the park with me (which, it's worth noting, was sometimes not only the final time we would take such a leisurely walk together, but also the first time), I could soon enough see and hear how gratified they were to have this opportunity, this special time carved out just for us, exclusively to honour the unique bond that existed between us and no one else. Because of the gravity of the situation, my friends, colleagues, and acquaintances were forced to stop and remember what I'd meant to them and they to me.

They were touched to know how much they had meant to me. I thanked them for having been in my life, for sharing with me their goodness and their talents. In these closings, I wanted to do something special for them, to make up for what I and we wouldn't get to do because I wouldn't be around. I wanted them to have something from me that would bring them a little pleasure, now and maybe later. For example, if I'd been a mentor to them, I wanted to do something to make them feel that they still had guidance.

For all the tears and choked-back words and the ominous shadow of finality that threatened to darken our encounters, the far more prevalent outpourings at these unwindings were smiles and laughter. If we were doing it face-to-face, I got to see it in their eyes. If it was on the phone, I could hear it in their voice. If it was by letter or email, I could read it in their words. So long as the unwinding was done in a positive way, it often brought great comfort to both parties.

For example, take my college roommate, Doug, who'd become a journalist. We spoke maybe once a year now, but we shared a history, and we'd always enjoyed each other's company and were intrigued by what the other was doing. I wrote him a note:

Doug, as you probably have heard, my health is failing me as I deal with advanced stage cancer. I wanted to write to tell you how much our friendship over the many years since Penn State has meant to me. Best wishes in your life. God bless, Gene.

I had planned to follow this with a call, to elaborate on my gratitude, but first I wanted to think about all the good memories we'd shared. The summer of our first year at university, when he and I had done Reserves Officer Training Corp duty on the USS Wasp, a Second World War aircraft carrier, tracking Russian subs all over the Atlantic. How we played cards against these two guys from Ohio.

Doug called me first. No, he had not heard my news, and he was shocked by it, but we had a good conversation. We talked a little about the past. At one point, he reminded me that I had been the first among our group to reach a number of milestones - getting married, becoming a father - and now I was first to the next life. He and the other guys would be joining me later, he said.

Towards the end of the conversation, I told Doug how much I appreciated what he had added to my life. He did the same. I was not teary-eyed, nor, it sounded, was he.

"It is what it is," I said.

There were no fireworks involved in our conversation. No amazing chocolate cake or vistas overlooking the Grand Canyon. Yet it felt like a Perfect Moment nonetheless. At the end, Doug said, "Goodbye". Not "Good luck" or "Keep the faith". No platitudes or denial. Just goodbye. I appreciated that.

Transition

On Sunday, we rented a boat and took my Mum and brother William out on Lake Tahoe. I chose the boat ride because I thought that would be most exciting and relaxing for them, and of course my wife Corinne and I would have a great time. If it was special for them, then there was a better chance to make a lasting and happy memory for them.

After we were out there a while, I took my mother's hand and walked her to the front of the boat to talk, just the two of us. I told her I was in a good place. I told her I would see her in heaven. A person of deep faith, she was comfortable with that.

Later, my brother and I talked alone. He was angry - not at me but at life, that this should be happening to me. "Your anger won't do anyone any good," I told him. It would dissipate him, I said. He needed to try and live in the present. I told him to take the energy he was spending being angry at the world, double it, and channel it into love for his children. He promised me he would. I told my brother how proud I was of him. I told him what a great father I thought he was, and how great a dad he would continue to be. It was a perfect day. I felt complete. Spent but complete.

Eugene O'Kelly died 10 September, 2005

Readers of 'The Independent on Sunday' can order copies of 'Chasing Daylight' by Eugene O'Kelly for £9.59 (normal price £11.99), plus £1.50 p&p, by calling 01628 502500 and quoting the code: CH2006ID.

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