The other night I watched "The Bucket List" on DVD. It stars Jack Nicholson as billionaire Edward Cole and Morgan Freeman as a poor black mechanic Carter Chambers. They meet in hospital where both are being treated for terminal lung cancer and strike up an unlikely friendship. Carter begins a list of things he'd like to do before he dies - a "bucket list" - and Edward, seizing upon this, persuades Carter to set out with him to do everything on the list. Carter leaves behind his wife and family, whereas Edward appears to have few ties, other than his faithful assistant. They both indulge their dreams and whims for experiences -- car racing, sky diving, climbing the pyramids etc - but also come to realise in the end the importance of their relationships - Carter with his wife, and Edward with his estranged daughter.
The film is as much comedy as drama, and makes light of the reality of having cancer. The ten months that Jen lived after diagnosis were dominated by the rigors of treatment and the long train of side effects, and there weren't many moments out of the shadow. But the film does raise the issue of what matter to us, what it would be worth doing with your remaining days.
I've also noticed the theme in books - "1000 places to see before you die" - and even on Facebook ads "The Melbourne Bucket List: 365 things to do before you die". The implication is that your life will be better and richer if it is crammed full of experiences. The deeper subtext is that death is far enough away that you can plan to fit in your travel first. Reading Simon Winchester's 1985 book "Outposts" (where he visits the remote outposts of the British Empire), he recounts being on a boat to Tristan da Cunha (in the South Atlantic) and meeting an American businessman who was then "the world's most travelled man", and who was upset that he hadn't been able to set foot on Ascension Island. The man's wife confided that her memories of most places were memories of airports, so that the apparent richness of travel was revealed to be hollow.
Jen did write a bucket list of her own in early 2009. I haven't yet located it again (since she had such a plethora of notebooks and journals), but I remember a few items. We did manage to go to a Paul Kelly concert together in February 2009, and we had a few days away together in Canberra in March 2009 around a work trip for me, all within the gaps of the chemo cycle. We didn't have a billionaire benefactor, but some generous friend anonymously gave us a substantial chunk of money that enabled us to do some things without having to worry about the expense.
Quite a few items on the list related to activities with the boys. Jen wanted to take Secundus on an aeroplane, show him fireworks, and see snow together. It's noticeable that everything on the list was about relationships as well as experience, about enjoying time together and perhaps leaving us with distinctive memories of Jen and our last year.
The biggest item on the list became a planned road trip up north through Queensland, using my long service leave and taking the boys out of school for term 3 of 2009. The hope was that after second line chemo and radiotherapy, Jen's cancer might lie low for a while, so that we could focus on time together, instead of the daily round of activities taking up Jen's energy. Jen had a couple of months to enjoy planning the holiday, working out a route and researching what we could do together. It reminded me of our earlier years in Sweden, where Jen spent a long while planning a holiday in England. The pleasure of planning is like my experience of bookshops - I enjoy being reminded of what I could read, even if I never do. As you'll know, we didn't have time for this trip - in early July the repeat scans found that Jen had multiple secondaries. We considered whether we might squeeze some shorter trips into the gaps in the new chemo cycle, but Jen was dead within another three weeks.
The deeper question is of course to decide what really matters in our lives now, and not leave it until we either die unexpectedly, or we are too ill to take any actions. Do I overvalue experience? Is it worth spending $80 to see a concert for the memory of three hours of enjoyment? Are the achievements of my work worthwhile beyond the money I earn? Do I put my real hope in God and not possessions? Will I have any good impact on the people who I meet in my life? Am I putting enough time and love into the relationships that matter most, especially the boys?
After a cancer diagnosis, whether you live or die, life seems more temporary. An older man I met, whose wife had breast cancer, explained that now, when an opportunity presented itself to do something or go somewhere, their inclination was to take it unless there was an obvious reason not to do it. This sounds dangerously like a Reebok ad (Life is short. Just do it), which is only comfortable when you feel that life it actually quite long. Nevertheless that realisation of our uncertain life does help me focus my priorities, though the balance is always complex. A good friend of mine is hoping this kind of thinking will persuade her husband to go to Paris for their 20th wedding anniversary, but I won't buy into that deliberation!
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Yes, the "list" approach misleadingly emphasises the quantity and details of the things to do (visit, eat, see), rather than the essence that gives all experiences (whether luxurious or supposedly mundane) their sweetness and fulfilment: the treasures of the spirit that you name so simply and beautifully. Service, faith and love.
ReplyDeleteClearly Jen wasn't misled; her desire was to celebrate in the outer things (music and beautiful places shared with those she loved) the beauty, truth and pleasure of the inner things.
What i learn from your writing here concerns your helpful question, "the issue of what matters to us, what it would be worth doing with your remaining days". Ideally, on learning that one was dying, you would need to change nothing about your daily routine, because you have already chosen actions and a way of life that expresses the truth of your spirit. 'St Francis of Assisi, hoeing his garden, was asked what he would do if he was suddenly to learn that he was to die at sunset that day. He said, "I would finish hoeing my garden".' This is a very helpful question for me. What would I change; what can I change now?