Kicking the bucket list: For the living, dying, and those pretending to be immortal
How do you want to be remembered when you’ve crossed over to the other side? Our names, whether etched in marble or scribbled in unpaid IOUs, cling to the legacy or reputation we build while conscious in real time.
Mozart left us symphonies. Einstein scribbled E=mc². Homer told tales of gods and wars. Hitler left atrocities. Genghis Khan left orphans.
But for the ordinary Juan de la Cruz, with no symphonies, equations, or empires, does that mean nothing? Not at all. A modest life lived honestly, without being a burden, is a life worth living.
No Rolex, Ferrari, or diamond purse follows you to the grave. The worms don’t care about your Mouawad clutch.
Which brings me to Norman, 46. A small, dark, med school classmate. He died Jan. 5, 2023, of a preventable heart condition. He came from a family of doctors in Butuan and Bohol, yet died alone, broke, and forgotten, a victim of indecision, frustration, and neglect.
He wanted to see his kid grow up. But he forgot the first rule: you cannot save others if you don’t save yourself first. His soul was willing; his heart was not. His “see you tomorrow” turned out to be his last.
We never said goodbye.
A year and a half later, my friend Anton and I dropped by his resting place, unplanned, like gatecrashers at a party nobody wanted to attend. His tombstone needed retouching. Not my skill set, but Anton worked his magic. We brought Starbucks and Marlboro, no longer carcinogenic, promise. Consider it a “home for the aged visit,” except the resident can’t complain about food, Wi-Fi, or curfew.
We knocked. No answer. Maybe he was pretending to sleep.
Life is hard. Dying is easy.
Norman wasn’t suicidal. He didn’t want to die. But he also didn’t want to live responsibly. Doctors, ironically, make the worst patients. I spoon-fed him meds. He shrugged: “Sige lang, okay lang ako.”
His condition was treatable. His stubbornness wasn’t. On Dec. 29, 2022, just a week before his death, he packed toys to visit his son, started his motorcycle, and collapsed a few meters from my gate, Santa Claus bag and all. Cause of death: decompensated congestive heart failure. Diagnosis: gahig ulo.
As Nobel laureate Ramón y Cajal once said: “It is idle to dispute with old men. Their opinions, like cranial sutures, are ossified.”
Thinking of checking out early? Hold your horses. Death is permanent. Sadness isn’t.
Cry. Crawl. Roll over. Repeat. But don’t vanish without discussion. There’s more to life than despair.
Some inspiration: (1) “Logic” by 1-800-273-8255; (2)”Lucid Dreams” by Juice WRLD; (3) “Grave of the Fireflies”; and (4) “Hachiko: A Dog’s Tale.”
Yes, reality hurts. But don’t copy the ending.
As Patch Adams reminded us, death has many synonyms: to expire, to peg out, to buy the farm, to cash in your chips, to worm buffet. And if buried upside down? At least someone can park their bike on your ass.
“I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” Helen Keller said that, or maybe Shakespeare, or maybe Facebook. It doesn’t matter; the point stands. The only way out of problems is through them. Talk to family, not influencers. Study. Work. No shortcuts. Education may not solve everything, but ignorance solves nothing.
To Norman: cold beer’s on its way, amigo. Try not to piss people off wherever you are.
To the rest of us: Life has no user manual. No grand meaning waiting in the clouds. Just you, me, and the present tense.
Be kind. Be honest. Don’t burden people with debts or hate. Hug your kids. Love your loved ones. Start the change with yourself.
And when the curtain call comes, may people say: “He was no Mozart or Einstein. But he was decent. He was kind.” Because sometimes, that’s enough.
MELBEN JOCHICO,
melbenjochico@gmail.com
