by Janice Hoffmann

I began to really think about death and dying some months into the pandemic. I never mentioned it. I told no one, not my husband, not my kids, not my girlfriends.

At first, I just thought about it in a panic. I don’t want to die. Then it got complicated with the stories on the news, interviews with exhausted and frightened front-line workers, people dividing into believers and non-believers, the photos of temporary morgues. Who knew what was important? Washing groceries? Washing your hands? How long? Did 15 seconds mean vulnerability and 30 seconds mean safety? Would my pristine, persnickety diet shield me from the dangers of my touchy lungs? Did I seriously have to wear a mask when I walked for exercise?

But, of course, the pandemic passed. For now. God knows how RFK will handle things if bird flu becomes a health threat, but let’s not borrow trouble.

So I took a post-pandemic vacation from thinking and talking about death and dying, and busied myself with being normal again. More often than not I am grateful for the opportunity to reinvent myself, my relationships, how I spend my time, and with whom.

But then the holidays happened. I believe most people have some choice in when they die, and they frequently choose this time of year, finally being ready to let go once they’ve had one last tender moment, seasonal ritual, or favorite taste, aroma, or sound. And when they are ready, they let go.

At my age you are reminded of death simply because you are older and more likely to know more people who have died. This includes family, friends, people you used to work with, a favorite celebrity. I’m asked to provide end-of-life instructions and a power of attorney for healthcare every time I have a procedure, no matter how minor. That doesn’t let you forget either.

So far — knock on wood — everything has turned out okay. But I know I have fewer days ahead of me than behind. It doesn’t matter when the days ahead seem endless; it’s when you start to number them that you begin to think. For me, what’s hard to accept is knowing I won’t repeat my dream trips to Southeast Asia and Africa, hoping I can go to Europe a few more times, and being shocked at how much a visit to Phoenix takes out of me.

Sometime in 2023, my bestie — a nurse, a woman of science — told me something that may very well be science, but has yet to be proven: that she believes in reincarnation. I smiled non-committedly. At her suggestion, I read “Many Lives, Many Masters,” by Brian L. Weiss, M.D., and since then, I won’t say I don’t believe.

After Kathy had made me read about reincarnation, I bought the Go Wish game published by the Coda Alliance. This deck of cards “provides engaging resources, research and tools … enabling easy, trusting, ‘what do I want’ discussions at any stage of life.” Before last Christmas, I bought multiple packs to force myself and those around me to talk about this, but the only one I gave away was to Kathy, which she shared with her family on multiple occasions to rave reviews. Me? I just stopped writing this to break the cellophane on my first deck.

What about you? How do we start this conversation?