“'Cause every hand’s a winner, and every hand’s a loser, and the best you can hope for is to die in your sleep,” advised the Gambler, a.k.a. Kenny Rogers.
But the Gambler was wrong. Whereas his chicken was tasty, his advice was lousy. (And honestly, I don’t think he was a very good gambler either, since he was begging strangers for booze and cigarettes.)
Because dying is one of those things that only happens once in your life. Be a shame to sleep through it.
I mean, c’mon, don’t you want to experience nonexperience? See what it’s like going from existence to nonexistence? Aren’t you curious?
Dying in your sleep is a rip-off!
And what happens if you die in the middle of a dream? I don’t know about y’all/youze, but whenever I’m dreaming, I assume my dreamworld is 100% real. (In fact, the moment I figure out it’s a dream, I almost always wake up — and I wish I didn’t, ‘cause it’s cheated me out of some epic adventures with George Washington, Mr. T, and that chick from the Whitesnake music video.) Plus, I also know that sometimes, our dreams incorporate outside stimuli: We overhear something and it’s stitched into the storyline, becoming part of our dream.
So maybe the “you” in your dream will experience death, but not the real you. You’re still sleeping away, completely unaware.
Then, your final thoughts will be of the life that you dreamed you lived — which could be awesome: “Wow, I won 11 Super Bowls, cured cancer, and defeated all those space aliens. Heh, heh, heh, I’m the coolest guy in history. Not too bad!”
Or it could be the exact opposite: What if you die in the middle of a horrible, inescapable nightmare — when all your fears, ghosts, demons, and monsters are running free?
What if you’re a non-Christian, but the “dream you” accepts Jesus on his deathbed? Does that still count?
On one hand, it’s still you — more or less. But on the other hand, it’s also someone else, and his deathbed was make-believe.
It’d make for a Total Recall moment at the Pearly Gates: “What, no, I accepted Jesus, let me in!” “Sorry, Quaid, it was all a dream.”
Last words are a fascinating concept, too. It’s a huge deal: The last thing you’ll ever say on this planet — and your mic-drop contribution to humanity.
That’s a lot of pressure. And pressure, alas, makes some people crack.
According to legend, Pancho Villa’s last words were, “Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.” That’s sort of like an actor yelling, “Line?!” at the director.
(Oof, Pancho. Not a good look.)
Other last words are mysterious — and you wish you knew what the person was thinking. Steve Jobs’ last words, while surrounded by his wife, children, and family, were, “Oh wow. Oh wow.”
For comedian Sam Kinison, who was (newly) clean and sober when an underage drunk driver crashed head-on into his car, his last words were a conversation with an invisible entity:
“Why now? But why? I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die.”
Kinison’s brother said it sounded like he was negotiating with someone. There was a brief pause.
“Okay, okay, okay.”
“Whatever voice was talking to him,” reported his brother, “gave him the right answer and he just relaxed with it.”
I wonder what Kinison heard?
Maybe we’ll find out one day. Maybe we’ll all find out one day.
My mom wrote in a baby book that my first word was “Bye-bye.” (Or is that my first two words?) So, if I still have my marbles on my deathbed, it’d be kind of funny if my last word was “Hello!”
That way, from beginning to end, I’d have done everything in my life bass-ackwards. There’s poetry to it.
But then again, maybe it’s not a good idea to cheapen the moment with humor. Maybe it’s better to aim for something more profound.
Trouble is, by the time you are on your deathbed, you’ve probably already shared all your profound thoughts. At least, I hope so: If you’re waiting ‘til you’re at death’s door to tell your loved ones how much you care about them and everything/anything else that could help them, you’re:
- A big-time procrastinator. (Seriously, bro.)
- Going skydiving without a parachute. There are no do-overs — and if you die before delivering that one zinger you’ve been sitting on, nobody will ever hear it. Ya blew it, buddy. Qué será, será.
Some last words are a wee bit less elegant than others. Mass murderer John Wayne Gacy’s last words were, “Kiss my ass.” (Probably doesn’t make you think any less of him, though.)
Whereas our last words can be captured, our final thoughts are tantalizingly unknowable. But maybe everyone thinks something at least somewhat similar, because death itself is universal. So there’s probably some kind of universal thought pattern that we’ve yet to detect.
Hey, near-death experiences often follow a pattern: A sense of calm, the appearance of long-lost relatives, floating away from your body and “going into the light.” This pattern could, of course, be the byproduct of our brains short-circuiting, releasing chemicals, and hallucinating. Can’t rule it out.
Or it could be a window to something godly. Can’t rule that out either.
But if I’m capable of controlling my thoughts on my deathbed, I think I’ll want to remember those moments of magic that made everything else worth enduring — those soft, gentle glimpses of heaven.
Nothing grand or geopolitical. No awards or professional accomplishments. Just the basics.
Hugging my mom. Feeling safe with my dad. Kissing my wife. Birth of our babies. Bedtime stories. Movie nights. Cuddling, laughing, and embracing my family.
There was one moment in particular, when my firstborn was stirring in his crib, whimpering in the throes of a very bad dream. So I picked him up and rocked him in my arms.
He awoke — briefly — and his eyes fluttered: “D- Daddy?”
And then he nestled his head on my shoulder, safe and secure, without a single fear in the world.
“Daddy!”
He fell back asleep. Because there was nothing else to be afraid of: Daddy would always protect him.
And I always have. Both my boys.
And I always will, ‘til my last breath.
There was something about that moment that perfectly captured everything that makes life worth living: love, innocence, honor, faith, duty, trust, and hope.
That would be a good memory to cling to when the Reaper comes.
The Gambler wasn’t completely wrong: Every hand’s a winner and every hand’s a loser. Because the best things — and the best moments — in life don’t require a hefty cash deposit.
They aren’t even for sale.
Anyone can be a winner. Anyone can be a loser. Because it’s not about the cards, the chips, or the size of the jackpot — it’s about how we play the game.
And a selfless, well-played game that inspired your family and friends?
That’s the best deathbed memory of all.
