A few nights ago, we watched the new movie Iron Lady about Margaret Thatcher. I expected an inspiring story about the rise of a grocer's daughter to become the first female prime minister of England. Instead, it was a touching study of dementia, i.e., that slow descent into madness before death. Hearing others talk about things she didn't understand, her fears rose. Seeing others talk among themselves, her paranoia rose. After a lifetime of accomplishment, she deserves a better final chapter than being a bitter old lady.
The next day, I attended the funeral for a friend. While we met in Rotary, we became friends when I met the bronzed, 83-year-old walking on the beach so often. A lifelong resident of this area, he began as a phys-ed teacher and rose to become the first director of parks for the city. He was in great health until the last year of his life. Toward the end, I thought he may have been somewhat fearful, but he was never angry or bitter. He was always a happy person, even in his final chapter.
I've been thinking about the contrast. Lincoln once answered that a man's legs should be long enough to reach the ground. Will Rogers said a person can be about as happy as they want to be. But, that begs the question of who doesn't want to be happy?
Maybe, it is just a matter of priorities. Lady Thatcher was driven by ambition. Did that trump her desire to be happy? Or, does dementia make such priorities irrelevant? Is her lifetime of accomplishment erased by the sadness of her death?
Existentialists have long considered death to be the ultimate absurdity. Often, I've heard death spoken in terms of rest after a lifetime of toil. Or, death may be a reward or the punishment for a life lived correctly or incorrectly. No matter whether death has meaning or not, the slow-motion death of dementia is worse than a sudden death. (Speaking as an economist, it is also much less expensive.)
To Lady Thatcher, whom I love and respect, I wish her a good death. She has earned it! And, to my beach buddy, I congratulate him on both a good life and a good death.
The next day, I attended the funeral for a friend. While we met in Rotary, we became friends when I met the bronzed, 83-year-old walking on the beach so often. A lifelong resident of this area, he began as a phys-ed teacher and rose to become the first director of parks for the city. He was in great health until the last year of his life. Toward the end, I thought he may have been somewhat fearful, but he was never angry or bitter. He was always a happy person, even in his final chapter.
I've been thinking about the contrast. Lincoln once answered that a man's legs should be long enough to reach the ground. Will Rogers said a person can be about as happy as they want to be. But, that begs the question of who doesn't want to be happy?
Maybe, it is just a matter of priorities. Lady Thatcher was driven by ambition. Did that trump her desire to be happy? Or, does dementia make such priorities irrelevant? Is her lifetime of accomplishment erased by the sadness of her death?
Existentialists have long considered death to be the ultimate absurdity. Often, I've heard death spoken in terms of rest after a lifetime of toil. Or, death may be a reward or the punishment for a life lived correctly or incorrectly. No matter whether death has meaning or not, the slow-motion death of dementia is worse than a sudden death. (Speaking as an economist, it is also much less expensive.)
To Lady Thatcher, whom I love and respect, I wish her a good death. She has earned it! And, to my beach buddy, I congratulate him on both a good life and a good death.
