Two kinds of dying

And how to pursue one of them

I almost died yesterday. It was awesome.

I know this sounds crazy, and maybe it is, but the episode yesterday validated an idea that I've come to realize over the past few years— sometimes, the closer we are to death, the more we feel alive.

But there's a specific way in which this feeling comes over us. It’s not always such a positive experience. Sometimes dying truly feels liked dying.

We've all heard stories of people who survived near-death situations, and how it totally revolutionized their approach to life, and made them all the more desperate to get the most out of their time left on this earth. Only just a few months ago, my friend Chris Coffman wrote about just this type of story¹, and the unbelievable human achievements that were initiated because of an encounter with cancer. This story is original, yet stereotypical, only in the sense that it's something we can relate to because we've heard others like it. These stories remind us that we often take living for granted, and that sometimes only the close brush with death can wake us up to realize how crucial it is that that we take life seriously.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately... and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life..." — Thoreau

This is my favorite quote from Walden (slightly truncated), because (1) it pretty well encapsulates the whole thesis and impetus of the novel, but also because (2) it continually reminds me, each time I read it, of this totally bewildering truth: It's possible to live without living.

But what does this mean?

Dying, fast and slow

And herein lies the very subtle distinction between two ways of dying, which can make all the difference in the world whether we feel like we are alive or not. As I said, there's a specific way in which dying can make us feel alive, and another that’s… not so much. There is a type of slow, creeping death which can gradually erode the soul, day by day; a death by a thousand cuts. In a certain sense, we are all traveling on this same pilgrimage from the cradle to the crave, but we don't necessarily notice it. But then there are some times when we are acutely aware of this chronic condition; it's like having someone delicately remove a bandaid instead of tearing it off and getting it over with, except that this bandaid is a bandage wrapped a hundred times around our skull. And a slow tearing motion takes place, over hours, days, weeks, months, and years.

"Many young men die at twenty-five and aren’t buried until they are seventy-five." — Benjamin Franklin

I've felt this slow death. I think most people do, as some point or another, especially many of my peers, especially so in this modern world. 150 years ago, Thoreau wrote, "the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." I have several very vivid memories of staring at a computer screen, hunched over after hours at the desk, this day being one day out of stream of days that merged together into one murky swamp, and feeling miserable. Feeling loathsome. Wondering how I got here. Wondering what atrocious decisions I made even with so many privileges and advantages and encouragements and advice, to end up here, seemingly at a dead end. And yet I still chastised myself for being ungrateful, remembering how many thousands of others I'd met in developing countries who performed back-breaking manual labor for a dollar a day, meanwhile I'm sitting in an air-conditioned office with an ergonomic office chair, benefits and salary unheard of in certain parts of the world, fresh out of school, young and healthy. But that didn't make me feel any better. Office Space is a funny movie, but it hits different when you've actually been there.

There's a section of a David Foster Wallace story, called The Soul is Not a Smithy, from his collection Oblivion (aptly named), in which a son tries to imagine the inner life of his father, who worked for 30 years at an absolutely unthinkably boring job. Trying to visualize the desklife of men who were forced to work as machines, doing the same functions that today are ironically done by computers (perhaps this may be a silver lining of the AI revolution²). He also writes about the topic of boredom in a vivid section of his final novel, The Pale King, in which he describes the similar annihilation felt by IRS employees; the part that still sticks with me is how the ghost of one examiner (who died from a heart attack, and sadly no one noticed for several days) haunts the halls and explains to current (living) employees things like the etymology of the word boring (which by the way is fascinating, and, in brief, has related connotations to the act of drilling a hole). These anecdotes evoke, more beautifully than I ever could, the nightmare of death that I'm trying to describe.³

Yet I consider myself lucky, now, to have experienced this so early in my life, pretty much immediately after I began working in the "real world." It shattered me, and left me dazed and wandering for years. But I'd much rather have experienced this in my 20s than later in life, or never noticed it at all, until it was too late. And I think having felt that death is perhaps what makes me so excited to share my story today, my recent dance with an immediate death, an acute incident. And I think that also provides some relevant context for some of my reasoning. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The ride

Allow me to explain my opening sentence, when I said I almost died: Yesterday I rode my motorcycle in the rain. Was it stupid? Yes. But you've yet to hear how stupid.

Now, it's already quite dangerous to go anywhere on two wheels (actually anywhere on four wheels for that matter, given the state of drivers today and their level of distraction), and that's made much worse in traffic, and even worse still at high speeds; all qualities that describe my regular commute. But the absolute worst conditions are when it's both raining AND nighttime. This was not my smartest moment, for sure. But then, again, maybe that's a good thing.

In my defense, it wasn't supposed to rain much yesterday, nor was it raining when I departed from work to go home, but that all changed, very quickly. Normally my drive is about 25 minutes, going 20 miles, most of it on the highway at 80mph. But soon into the ride, the weather changed, and the rain started DUMPING. Not rain "drops," but globules of water. A scientist could have discovered an ecosystem within each one. And the wind picked up too. And I can usually see the sunset around 8pm when I get off, but not when the skies were so occupied with black pillows of wrath. Things looked dark, to say the least.

So the highway get-home-quick-route was a no-go. This was going to be a slog. Instead, I had to take side roads for about 40 miles, and obviously drive much slower. So it ultimately took me over an hour to get home. By the end, I was so soaked that my boots were spilling water over the brim at the ankles (Waterproof boots are great until there is a class 2 rapid streaming down your pantleg. Then they just become buckets).

The worst part was that I couldn't see worth a damn. It's already hard enough driving in the rain and at night, but a motorcycle helmet has no windshield wipers (believe it or not). To get an idea of what it was like, imagine yourself getting off a long workday, and driving drunk, with your glasses off (if you don't wear glasses, just humor me here), and with the windshield wipers off. Oh, and asphalt + puddles make a great mirror, and I just want to point out here how glad I am that 20% of drivers nowadays have LED headlights that feel like their highbeams are on all the time. So I got to appreciate the quality of those headlights from oncoming traffic as they reflected off the pavement and through my rain-strewn visor and into my eyes.

Most of the time I felt like I was just intuiting where the lanes were. "Just groovin’ man." It's a miracle that I made it the whole way without crashing.

It was one of the scariest and hardest and most nerve-wracking things I've ever done. As mentioned, one of the stupidest as well. But it was also one of the most fun things I've ever done. What a paradox.

There were times I was sure I was going to fly over the handlebars and eat gravel. And at the same time I felt vigorous, vibrant, electrified. One moment in particular stands out to me, even now. The image is seared into my memory.

The majority of the trip was harrying because I was driving with other cars in traffic. Not the highway, sure, but still a busy 3-lane road. And I couldn't really "see" per se where the other cars were, nor where the lanes were, nor if there were any potholes or debris in the road, nor if there were puddles of death lying in wait to make my tires more like paddleboards than wheels.

And worse than the fear of colliding sideways or headlong with another car was that the entire time I had this fear in the back of my mind that those behind me couldn't see me, and/or I was going too slow, and I would get rear-ended without my knowledge. Motorcycles, recall, have no rear-view mirror, even if you can kinda peak behind yourself with the side mirrors. But these were likewise rain-strewn and mere decorations at this point. This part of the journey was already tough when I was going into the wind, but then when I turned 90° to go the other direction, I was then going across the wind, which threatened to tip me over.

But the best part of the odyssey was when I was finally free of the major roads, and went into the countryside. I was completely alone. No fear of crashing with someon else, but also no streetlights to illuminate the way, just me and my headlight, and whatever bit of moon shone through the thick clouds.

Above: a pretty accurate depiction of this section of the ride, albeit I saw way more elevation change and way fewer trees.

Imagine this: the roads here weave and wind in serpentine patterns, and they go up and down large hills. Two lanes only. Nothing on the side of the road to observe, just open land for miles in each direction. The rain coming down in sheets. The hum of the engine as the rain tick-tacks incessantly against my helmet. I can only see about 5 feet ahead of me, just "feeling" the road. Clothes starting to feel cold, then wet, as I realize they are getting soaked. If I crash, it's possible no one will find me for hours.

I felt like a ship sailing on the stormy seas. It felt like an adventure, in the true sense of the word.

"Exploring is delightful to look forward to and back upon, but it is not comfortable at the time, unless it be of such an easy nature as not to deserve the name." — Samuel Butler, Erewhon

Ecstasy

And then, in the depths of this all this hardship and misery, beneath all the water that assaulted me, I was transported to another place. It was like I had delved underneath the waves and found a subnautical city, hitherto undiscovered. At this point on the country road, I come across some governmental facility, or research institute, way out in the boonies, far from civilization. This far into the ride, I start to get a bit loopy from the intense focus I had held for so long. I peer through the thick curtain of fog and rain and blackness, and I see a glow. The campus of this unknown organization is lit up by dozens of floodlights that don't so much illuminate as irradiate. I felt like I was approaching Area 51. Or maybe I was on an alien planet, and this was their human study laboratory. I shivered uncontrollably. And then I smiled.

For a brief moment, I stopped worrying. I stopped being miserable in the cold and wet. My headache went away. I stopped chastising myself for my stupidity. I stopped fretting over the damage this rain would do to my motorcycle, and my leather jacket, and my boots. I sat there in my saddle, wrapped in bliss, and I realized— this is living. This is adventure. This is what I am always seeking, what all of us are seeking. Was it comfortable? Not at all. But it was wonder-full. I could feel my heart pounding. I knew then, and this without a doubt, that I was alive. It feels so stupid to say, but then again it's not always easy to tell, on days that are full of tedium of boredom and frustration, grey days that are so featureless that you'd rather have anything than more nothingness.

If driving that night was like sailing alone during a thunderstorm towards a treasure island, a scene out of the climax of a Pirates of the Caribbean movie, the orchestra urging me onward, then many other days are like being adrift on a life raft without a paddle, wilting under the sun, throat parched, stomach gnawing, skin burnt, eyes bloodshot, hopelessly lost and slowing growing deranged. I've felt both.

But I could have totally missed it. I'm glad I had the presence of mind at that moment to realize what was happening. It doesn't always happen that way. Sometimes, usually in fact, we only recognize the significance of a moment after it has passed. But if we're lucky, and we practice mindfulness, and a bit of philosophy, we can get better at recognizing those moments when they occur and we can get better at being fully present in them. I've experienced that progress in my own life. And that's one of the reasons I feel it is so crucial to write about this, to share this principle with others, and to remind myself in the process. I believe that understanding this phenomenon of life and death will help us to notice it when it occurs.

"There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive." —Jack London

To be very clear, I don't recommend that you do this. In fact, I hope I never do it again. I've definitely learned my lesson. It was one of those things that I'm glad I did once. And also glad that I did just once.

Still, I think there's something to be said for near-death experiences- they make us remember how great a miracle it is to be alive. But by their definition, these moments are awful to live through. So I wonder, is it possible to be reminded of death without having to be so close to it? Do we really have personally grapple with the grim reaper in order to recognize this simple fact?

Discomfort

A few weeks ago, Taylor Foreman wrote about a similar experience, in which he was almost splattered by a pink hummer limousine that ran a red light⁴. And I asked him this question: what are the things that remind us of death, without having to come so unnaturally close to it?

His answer was that he liked to pursue things that put him far away from comfort. For him, that meant a) lifting weights, which was not exactly fun for him, and broke his body down, caused him (minor) pain, made him sore, made him realize how weak he really was. It also meant b) immersing himself in cold water, which shocked his system and sent a shiver throughout his nervous system, and made him cling to his towel afterwards like a baby clings to her mother. Both of these things are pretty accessible for all of us, but you may not be interested in them. But most surprising of all was c) being in social situations. And this coming from an incredibly intelligent, good-looking, funny guy. Who writes and perform comedy sketches in front of strangers. A writer celebrated by his peers and by those who have never even met him. But don't we all feel this social stress? That ancient anxiety of being rejected by the tribe because of one ill-timed punchline; cast out, excommunicated, a permanent pariah.

But for me, I experience discomfort in different ways, and I bet you do too. Although I'm an introvert, and love to spend time by myself, I'm actually quite at ease in social situations. I like talking to new people. Same with lifting weights. Maybe just because I've been doing it for some long, it's become habit. Instead, I get anxious when I'm sitting at home trying to write, stuck in writer's block, or feeling like the day is slipping through my hands like sifting sand, and then I feel guilty about wasting time, about being unproductive, and then I feel guilty about that thought process, and that makes me more anxious.

In fact, this whole publication is simultaneously the most enjoyable and the most uncomfortable thing I do. And I work on it almost every day. But it's getting easier. It's becoming more of a routine, more of a habit, more of an instinct and a reflex. Soon it will become comfortable, like tying my shoes, and I'll have to find a new challenge to confront. But for now it's enough.

Conclusion

There are other ways to remind ourselves of death; in fact, I can think of at least five right now, but I don't have the space or time to cover them here. I'd like to write about them in the coming weeks.

But for now, what are the moments when you've had brushes with death? And what are the things that make you uncomfortable, that make you anxious for your life, activating your fight-or-flight response, reminding you that there is something beautiful to protect, something to savor? And what are the ways that make you feel like you're dying a slow and agonizing death, convicting you that you need to do something different?

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1. Chris Coffman’s story here.

2. Which AI revolution I wrote about here.

3. “But I do not believe I knew or could even imagine, as a child, that for almost 30 years of 51 weeks a year my father sat all day at a metal desk in a silent, fluorescent lit room, reading forms and making calculations and filling out further forms on the results of those calculations, breaking only occasionally to answer his telephone or meet with other actuaries in other bright, quiet rooms. With only a small and sunless north window that looked out on other small office windows in other grey buildings...

I did not know that ... in mild weather he took his lunch down in the elevator and ate it sitting on a backless stone bench that faced a small square of grass with two trees and an abstract public sculpture, and that on many mornings he steered by these 30 minutes outdoors the way mariners out of sight of land use stars... I had periods of imagining my father sitting on the bench year after year, chewing, and looking at that carved out square of something green, always knowing exactly how much time was left for lunch without taking his watch out.”

— David Foster Wallace, The Soul is Not a Smithy

4. Taylor’s story about the pink hummer here.