Dying at home in old-time Phoenix


In my culture, talking about death is taboo. I was raised to never speak of it, as if talking about it would somehow make it happen, which is best summed up in the phrase "Speak of the Devil, and he appears". So we observe a silence about it, which makes it even more frightening when it does happen, which it does.

Speaking for myself, I plan to die of old age, and to do it at home. I've made all of the arrangements to have my wishes met, in writing, notarized, signed sealed and delivered. And yes, it creeps people out when I talk about it, which I've done, and of course I've learned to not do that. But I'd like to do it here, with you.

In my lifetime, most people I've known have died in hospitals, or nursing homes. I really can't think of anyone I've ever known who died at home, in bed, of old age. And all of the arrangements that I've ever heard have always been about making sure that there's plenty of insurance, and money, so that a life can be prolonged. So talking about death seems to be a sort of fatalism, that people in my culture frown on. And I guess I understand. But this morning I'm thinking about old-time Phoenix.

As a typical big city boy, I've seen very little death. I've never lived on a farm, and I can't imagine being exposed to so much death. I still have a distinct memory of seeing my neighbor's dog on the doorstep of his house in Tempe back in my twenties, and the dog was no more. My neighbor's attitude I considered insensitive, but he was older and wiser than me, and now I think I understand. The dog was an old, old dog.

When I think of time-traveling in Phoenix, I wonder how much of it would shock me. Certainly the attitude towards death would seem insensitive. Animals died, people died, right there at home. Yes, of course there would have been people who even in old-age would have insisted that the most modern methods be used to keep them alive a little bit longer, but I'd imagine that those people would have been in the minority.

If I could, I'd like to sit on the porch and hold the hand that I've known for so very long. It trembles, and both of us know that the end is near. I will fix you a glass of whiskey, with water. I'll take mine neat. Tell me what living a long life is all about, and promise me that I will be able to do the same. I will be here, and I will hold your hand after it's gone cold. Your heart no longer beats, but your spirit remains, I'll see to that. And hopefully someone will do the same for me some day.

Image at the top of this post: Looking west on Washington over 1st Street in 1908, Phoenix, Arizona.
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