I’ve never thought I am immortal, so I have always accepted mortality as a given. Who would want to be immortal anyway? Imagine your friends and loved ones all growing old and dying, while you still lived on. Imagine the world changing to such an extent that you could no longer cope with what it required. No, we live our one life, then our lives end and we leave room for others.

I was brought up by atheists and largely avoided churchgoing and religious dogma, even though I went to church schools. Heaven and hell were not for me, though on my first day at primary school I was told I would go to hell because I hadn’t been baptised. We were a tiny family – me, my parents, and one childless aunt. This was my adoptive family. The first time I saw a blood relative was when my daughter was born when I was 39. Thirty years later, she has decided that she will not have children, because of the state of the world and the environment. So, I struggle to even recognise that there is a kind of immortality, in the memory of others, or through our genes. When I’m gone, I’m gone.

As a young child in a family of practising Roman Catholics I remember lying in bed at night worrying about dying. Death was something to be feared. I can still feel the echo of that in the pit of my stomach as I write this piece.

Since then I have encountered death in many ways but now it no longer has that grip on my heart. I understand that we are part of a changing and evolving universe where, for me, the gift of life is a random event, so I feel beholden to make the most of my existence while I am still a living, breathing being in our world.

This was most reinforced for me when my previous partner was killed in 2013. Suddenly losing her with no forewarning was an extremely painful event. It led me, however, to understand that I could die at any moment. Because of this, and also to commemorate my partner’s passing, I resolved, wherever possible, to do good in the world for as long as I am able.

Knowing one day that I, as a conscious, living entity, will no longer be part of our human existence, also makes me more determined to make the most of every day I am gifted life by our universe. To take time to encounter the world; to acknowledge the troubles, worries, needs and desires of my human companions on this planet. To allow the natural world to impact me; whether it be insects in the ground I am digging; birds flying above me when I am outside; or the rich variety of trees, plants and all life forms sharing our existence.

Accepting my mortality means that I am committed to living my life to the full and to helping others do the same. It is as simple as that.

On mortality

To try to understand my own mortality I must look back at my life and look forward to my death. Mortality meaning the fact that I am subject to death, I am not immortal. In my mind I wish to dispute this solid truth. Although I am old, I try not to be old.

My death will be defined by my life; the life I have lived. On balance, without false modesty, I believe that I have been more positive rather than negative. I have experienced great successes and acknowledge dismal failures. Such has been my life’s pattern. I was an unwanted child but I am privileged to have known great love for forty years, from my wife who departed some years ago. In my life, I have touched people, influenced them or given cause for reflection. Those whom I have inspired or taught and, in more recent years perhaps, those whom I have married and the loved ones of those whose funerals I have conducted. I will have left behind some monuments, things that I have made or written, that will outlive me. Eventually, these also will fade away. So, what is this life of mine? I want to say that I have done my best to be a useful contributor to the kaleidoscope of events and philosophies that have surrounded me and, I suppose, none of us can ask for more than that.

I have no fear of death but great concern about the manner of my dying. I might come to the point where I am a burden on others or am stripped by disease of my dignity. If I see that coming I shall slip, quietly, away.

Dying, death and being dead. I’m perfectly at ease with all three – in fact, I rather look forward to them, whenever and however they come. We’re certain these things will happen, and if we’re lucky we have plenty of time to prepare for them.

Dying is about coming to terms with the end of life. It’s a process, not an event – an opportunity to reflect on one’s achievements and impact, mistakes and oversights. It’s a time to leave nothing unsaid.

Death is about letting go – that moment of sweet surrender when you allow the inevitable to take over and relax into unconsciousness, like that delicious point between exhaustion and a much-needed sleep. Buddhist thought holds that suffering comes from struggle, and death comes when you allow both to end.

Being dead is simply about physically being no more. Everything you were persists and all that you’ve done remains, but your body has moved on for recycling. It’s exactly as things were before you were born, but the world and the people you love and who love you have had the benefit of your being. Whether life lasts minutes, days, years or decades makes no difference to the universe: you have been.

This is how I view my mortality. Life and death come as an inseparable package deal, and each of these elements play an essential part. I accept them, value them and embrace them for the essential experiences they are.

Some talk about or believe in a life after death. And of course they’re right: the stuff we’re made of has been around since the beginning of time, and will be until its end. I just think of the joyous chance and good luck that for a brief, wonderful blink of time, some of those molecules were assembled into me.

On Mortality

Our temporariness is such a short time.

I strive to do my best.

I strive to accept my best is ‘good enough’.

I fear deterioration in mental and physical capacity. To me, those capacities enable me to contribute my best to life on earth.

On the other hand, I accept an end to living. Life on earth thrives from cycles of ideas, inputs, happenings – beginnings and endings and lives in between.

I accept my influence is in the now. We are finite beings.

We need to prepare ourselves: to learn to step aside; to pass on to others; to pass on the baton!

The pandemic has emphasised our vulnerability and our mortality. I have talked more about death – the end – during this unusual time. The end is non-negotiable. It is harder to talk about getting there. This path is more ‘messy’, more unpredictable.

My uncle whom I did not know well died recently at the age of 94 years. I knew him from afar as he emigrated to Canada with my aunt in 1955. From when I was a child, I thought of him as an adventurer and courageous. He broke the mould and broke the rules of the time! He grasped life and opportunities. He was a thinker and wise counsel, a considerate, kind man. His family was very precious to him. His aspirations for his children, with his help to prepare and support them in their lives, was for them to be kind to each other and to others. He and my aunt also discussed the end of life and made plans, and fulfilled them courageously.

Thinking about his life and his achievements has focused my thoughts on my life and my end. Yes, we must all talk more.

I am fortunate that my life has been a happy one. Now retired, my days still fill with simple pleasures, a favourite of which are walks with my wife Lek, our still-growing family, and my whippet. Lek and I treasure above all else these times spent with our family. But I am now getting close to the end of my life. This prospect does not trouble me greatly even though, as a scientist, I discounted long ago any supernatural explanation of life in favour of one based on natural forces, including evolution, genetics, and heredity. My own genetic make-up, inherited from my parents and theirs, has already been passed to our children and grandchildren in that cycle from birth to birth that bypasses death. Although I am saddened to think that my death may cause my family grief, they will surely be comforted knowing as they walk away from the grave, that they together represent more of me than lies behind. And they will know that I loved them each and that their company was my greatest pleasure. I find immense comfort also in knowing that the same ties of heredity binds us to all life on earth, in all its various forms. We must therefore be kind, and look after each other.

Looking towards my final days, I want to avoid that greatest of all indignities and distresses, of declining into mental confusion and helplessness. If that seems likely I have planned a merciful end to my own happy life.

Two days after my 56th birthday, without any warning at all, I was floored by pains in my chest. Without hesitation, my husband took me to A&E who swiftly declared I was having a heart attack. I had not been ill, not at all. That day I’d walked in the sunshine, had a chicken in the oven, washing on the line. It was January and the day was clear and blue. I had been reading quietly whilst the chicken roasted when the pain gripped me at 2.00pm. By 3:30 pm I had had a stent inserted in an artery by an extraordinary team of professionals and was being wheeled back to the ward. My husband was standing there holding my jacket and shoes, pensive, concerned, and reached out and took my hand.

In two months of recovery I had a lot of time to reflect. I was told that due to the quick actions of my husband I had no lasting heart damage – this is good! I was also told that I had a congenital heart defect that had only emerged now in middle age, so that was good to know! By holding onto the science, I gradually emerged from the emotional gloom and let go of the fear. And by absorbing the love of all those around me, I climbed back to health.

Science matters, love matters, and how we live our lives matters. Death will come to me one day, of course. But until it does I am going to carry on living my life openly, fully, and lovingly, believing this is the best legacy I can leave about me to those who I love who will live life beyond me.

Mortality – that’s a tricky one. I find it difficult enough to think about a lovely summer’s day in the depths of winter, or vice versa, without trying to envisage something of which I can have no experience, at first or second hand. The only tool I have for tackling my own mortality is my imagination, which is not helpful, as it inevitably dwells on the awful ways I could die rather than the fact of dying. Like many people, I like the idea of quitting the party while it’s still going on, quickly and without warning. But that is so not good for the people left behind.

Sudden death is a physical as well as an emotional shock. And it’s messy. Even the most prepared people won’t have thought of everything and may not have updated their will or their funeral wishes very recently. That can be difficult enough to cope with, but the worst thing is not being able to say goodbye.

A ‘good death’ allows for that. Beyond making sure the important people have your computer and email passwords, there may be the doing of the as yet undone, the mending of relationships, the reallocating of priorities, the saying of things not yet said. It may be preparing loved ones for a life without you, or it may simply be creating or stashing away a store of good memories that will provide sustenance in the dark days to come.

I hope I will be lucky and brave enough to have a good death.

It’s 3.00am and my daughter is awake. I go to cuddle her and realise she’s crying. ‘I don’t want to die’, she says, ‘Or you to die. What will happen? Would you miss me?’ I get a flashback to my own childhood and the moment when the realisation hit that me and everyone I knew and loved was going to die someday. I recalled the fear, the sadness. Here it was replayed in front of me.

I want to support my daughter through her worries, but 3.00am with a 3 year old is no time for philosophy. We have stories as our common language and lots of them. I remember the stories that helped me, inspired me, that taught me that it was important to have your own story to tell at the end of your life and that you had to work hard to create it. All those little bits of hope, wisdom and guidance kept me going even though I didn’t even know I had them until I needed them.

They taught me that my own worries about death, when I was able to stand up and address them rather than shy away or ignore them, gave me insight into what I really cared about. I was thinking about the people I wanted to spend time with, and was terrified I wouldn’t get to write my own stories or learn or see anything new. My passions came to light when a limit was put upon my time. I don’t always get it right, but now I have this awareness I hope I am living in accordance with these passions, so that when I come to the end of my life, I can rest with the knowledge not that I did everything, but that I did my thing.

I was aware of mortality from a young age, due to the loss of people close to me, but found my grief was managed and directed by others. I was told ‘they are in a better place’, ‘you will get to see them again’, ‘they are watching over you’. Whilst the intention behind these sentiments was good, it did nothing to help me move on, accept the grieving, and take comfort in the best memories of those I had lost.

When I was old enough to challenge my beliefs, and really think about the ‘end of life’, I found much more comfort in living for now and not some idea of anything after this life. I don’t have any fear of death or dying. Losing someone you love is still heartbreaking but focusing on what you shared whilst they were alive, the experiences and memories, that makes grieving less painful. It also makes me more determined to make the most out of every moment.

Now I am in the position of guiding my children through difficult times, I can understand the tendency for people to fall back on what they see as paths of hope and reconciliation that may be perceived as easier for children to comprehend. But honesty is much better in the long run. Explaining that people believe many different things but nobody can give a definitive answer gives children the opportunity to find a path through grief which works best for them. I don’t know if there is an afterlife, but I believe there isn’t, so concentrate on now and live life to the fullest. I think about how I want people to remember me the most, and that is laughing, learning, loving and finding joy in everything I do. That is enough for me.

Our society shuns away from talking or thinking about death. We know it hovers in the background, like a cloud, somewhere, but we never wish to turn and look it in the face. We certainly are not encouraged to talk about it.

The deaths of my father, my much loved cousin (who was like a brother to me) and then two years ago my beloved husband, have caused me to face this wispish cloud. I am still determined to live forever, but now realise this may not be reality!

I have no children to carry on my line, a great sadness.

Instead, I write and paint, hoping that my creations will remain treasured in the world long after I am gone. Maybe they will offer comfort to others and bring smiles to faces unknown to me.

What we leave behind are memories, with our family, our friends and sadly also with our enemies. So, it seems to me that a great importance in life is to try to ensure that we have no enemies. That there will be no one who thinks badly of us in the future. That we leave only golden memories, happy memories with lots of laughter, fun, wisdom and friendship.

The way to do this is to live well, think before we speak, love others, be happy.

I want to be remembered with a smile, or not at all.

My death is certain. There is no doubt. Life is not certain. It may be lost or hindered at any time. That is why it must be lived with purpose.

When I die I shall make way for those who follow, to build with renewed vigour and knowledge on the world as they find it, including the effects of my existence. I shall be no more than atoms available for recycling by some other animals, plants or rocks. Those who love me will be sad, that I regret, but lasting impressions have been made from the day I was born. My existence can never be erased. And that is surely more than enough.