Listening to a Dying Person
Why we should listen to each other
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Dear Bolu,
Dark clouds. Neon lights. Futuristic architecture. Harrison Ford. Flying cars. And perhaps, the culmination of man's full knowledge of the workings of the known universe—bionic humans. Such is the setting of Ridley Scott's Blade Runner. It tells the tale of bionic humans (referred to as Replicants) who were created with a death stamp. Now fully self-aware, they unsuccessfully try to stave off their demise. It was released in the 80s and it remains one of the sci-fi gems of 20th-century cinema.
I am not a bionic human, are you? To be sure you aren't one, I'm supposed to administer a CAPTCHA test, but I'm going to trust you. You're welcome. We aren't engineered beings, so we are not aware of our death stamps even if such a thing existed. We don't know for certain when we will pass on from this world of physical contact into the next. This lack of knowledge is somewhat blissful because it helps us focus on the present. It is also a bit troublesome as it makes it hard for us to make optimal use of our time.
We don't know when we will die so it is easier for us to put off answering questions about our mortality. We don't need to confront it because it is not imminent, or so it seems. Although we may choose not to face this reality, we could have loved ones who have no choice in the matter. Their death could be clinically stamped and assured of happening in a couple of days or months without the miraculous intervention of a preacher, a witch, or a wrong clinical diagnosis.
Tough as it may be a fate to accept, we do so nonetheless. Oh, we love them. We have always loved them, yes, but now—perhaps more than ever—we are more careful with and conscious of the expressions of our love. They have a determinate time left to live and we try to make it at least bearable for them.
We find it easier to make excuses to go see them or check up on them. We are also eager to engage them in conversations. We think about how much suffering they are possibly going through so we try to talk to them. No, we listen more than we talk. For once, we listen to their thoughts and the silent meanings inherent in them. We listen intently like their words bear the weight of a thousand suns and missing out on a syllable would be catastrophic.
I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.
-Roy Batty’s last words (Blade Runner, 1982)
We can't easily dismiss their fears as we are wont to. We can't simply drown out their concerns with "it is well", "nothing spoil", "we dey, we dey", "e go be", "everything go stew", or "na smallz". Their death is almost certain and it humbles us. Sure, we can do little or nothing to help them but we aren't quick to dismiss their anxieties with good-intentioned platitudes that ultimately achieve nothing. We listen to them and try to see them through it.
The only difference between us and them is that the reality of their impending death cannot be shrugged off as easily as ours can. We seem to be living and they seem to be dying. But that is not quite right, is it? For as long as we are living, we are also dying. Life and death—the only parallel lines that meet, or perhaps more aptly, the most wholesome circle. Where one starts, the other ends, and vice-versa. Within this circle; breath, love, knowledge, grief, and everything else. And without it? Nothingness.
Whether we are accepting of the reality of our death or not, it is a biological certainty. And perhaps if we saw each other as fading lights or dying souls, we can be more careful with and conscious of the expressions of our love. Perhaps we can make out time to be with people and listen to them more intentionally.
Listening is a big deal and we fail at it a lot of the time. We fail to listen to our thoughts and those of our friends. We hear them out but that is where it stops. You probably don't remember this but when you were a baby—a little mass of flesh and bones with a penchant for crying without provocation—there was so much expectation for what your first words would be.
Of course, you were never going to say something as phonetically challenging as "Pavlyuchenko" or "Senbonzakura". It would be a phenomenon if you pulled either off. You were more likely to say a word along the lines of "da -da", "ma-ma", or something similarly repetitive.
At this point, you didn't need to implore anyone to listen to you. You didn't have to seek anyone's ears as they were eager to listen. In fact, with the proliferation of cameras these days, it's likely that a baby's first words will be caught in 4K. We pay so much attention to the first incoherent words of little ones and we are not wrong to do so. After all, they represent a milestone in their cognitive growth and awareness as humans.
Funny enough, after those first few words, we live out most of our lives trying to get people to listen to us. And on our deathbed, people are again eager to hear our final words. In contrast with our first, we are expected to be philosophical in our last utterings. We've seen it all, done it all, and we must now say it all. We must say something deep and profound. "I love you 3000". "Live long and prosper". People want to hear you mutter one last gem of wisdom, confession of love, wish, or regret. Oh, and it would also make the obituary look nice...
"There he was—a frame of age, wisdom, and experience. Sat in his favorite chair, and surrounded by his loved ones including his wife who he had adored for many decades. They had been estranged for a few years now, but that didn't matter. He knew he was about to leave this realm for another and all could tell that it was only a matter of hours. Each breath could be his last but he endured this suspense with a smile on his face. The moment came in a flash, and that smile persisted as he transitioned to the great beyond. His final words were "Potato, Potahto"
These heavy weights we give to words said at the beginning of life and on the corridors of death should be distributed across the entire spectrum of living and dying. If we saw the next person as dying and not just living, we might be more inclined to listen to them. We might pay deliberate attention to their fears and anxieties. We might rely less on platitudes and actually, try to be there for them. We might find it easier to make excuses to see them. We might try harder to make life bearable for them. We might find ways to love them more carefully and consciously.
You see, you won't learn any more from the thoughts of a man on his deathbed or a baby about to say her first words than you would from your thoughts and those of everyone around you. We are one and the same for as long as we are living, we are also dying. So listen to yourself. Listen to your friends. Listen to your loved ones.
Fin.
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Write you soon, merci !
- Wolemercy
❤️❤️❤️
Death is as telling as life, both weaving the same story. This is beautiful Wole. Sheesh men, you’re so gifted! Thanks for this consciousness.