The Worst Die

                                                      

The Worst Way to Die & Thoughts on Legacy

Quick—off the top of your head—what’s the worst way to die?

For me, it’s either by fire or drowning. The other night, I accidentally set my hand on a hot stove burner. The pain was instant and intense. It made me think of the martyrs of various religions, and I just thought, “Nope. I couldn’t do it.”

Once, while rafting, I fell out and got sucked under a rapid. I was tossed around like I was in a washing machine. As I started running out of breath, I thought, “I really don’t want to die this way.” Luckily, I popped out, shot to the surface, and gasped for air like it was gold.

Come to think of it, I don’t want to die in a plane crash either. That slow, terrifying moment of descent, knowing what’s coming... no thanks.

Car crashes? Same deal. I once saw a semi spin out in a snowstorm in Colorado, and I thought, “Someone’s going to die. Please don’t let it be me.”

And Ebola? Bleeding out? Nope. Just no.

Honestly, the more I think about it, there’s no death scenario that sounds inviting. That’s the problem—unless we take death into our own hands through voluntary death (which is how I refer to suicide), we don’t get to choose how it happens. Death just... shows up.

Most of us don’t like thinking about how we’ll die. But after forty years of walking with death—professionally and personally—I've been forced to consider my own mortality. And oddly enough, I find it life-giving. Once I move through my fear of how I might die and just accept that I will, I find peace. It helps me focus on how I want to live.

That’s the gift of thinking about death: it actually helps us live more fully. When we’re aware that our time here is limited, we start asking the important questions. Are we loving our life? Are we nurturing our friendships? Are we living on purpose?

When I sit with families after a death and begin planning a celebration of life, I always ask, “What was their legacy?” And you’d be surprised how often that question draws a blank stare. Once, I asked a group of adult children after their father's death what his legacy was. Nothing. So I tried, “What were his life goals?” Still nothing. I asked, “What did he like to do? Any hobbies?”

Finally, one of them said, “He watched television.”

Okay. A start. I pressed, “What else did he do?”

“He watched television.”

“What did he do for work?”

“Nothing.”

“So… he just watched TV?”

“Pretty much.”

“No pets? No close friends? Time with grandkids?”

“Nope.”

“Was he depressed? On medication?”

“No, he just really loved television.”

And there it was. His legacy was: he watched TV.

Now, I try not to be judgmental—but let’s be honest, sometimes I am. And this is one of those times. If your legacy is watching television, I strongly encourage you to pause and think: when you're on your deathbed, is The Price Is Right really what you want to reflect on?

I’ve sat with people dying of terminal cancer, and they’ll tell you: life is precious. Many have told me that their cancer was, in some strange way, a gift. A wake-up call. They savor each moment. They see the colors in the grocery store produce aisle differently—the red in the peppers, the yellow of bananas, the green of broccoli. Everything pulses with life. It’s like they’re seeing in color for the first time, as if life before cancer was all in black and white.

Not everyone feels this way, of course. But I’ve heard it enough to believe there’s truth in it.

And I always ask myself—why does it take cancer to see life so vividly?

This is the beauty of contemplating death: it brings light to our life.

If you’re reading this and you’re terminal, I don’t want you to despair. I know your disease may be brutal, painful, and relentless. I’m not trying to romanticize your suffering. But I am inviting you to consider this: even now, you can begin leaving a different kind of legacy. There’s no time like the present.

Ask your friends and family, “What do you think my legacy is?” That one question opens the door to some of the most meaningful conversations you’ll ever have.

And if you don’t like the answers you get—change the story. You still have time. Time to make amends, say “I love you,” cherish your friendships, write a letter, send a text. Every one of those choices becomes part of your legacy.

You may not get to choose how you die—but you do get to choose how you live in your final days.

Whether you’re reading this to help someone else die, or you're dying yourself, let your death be a gift—not just to you, but to those you love. Death isn’t just the grim reaper; it can be the great revealer. It can open your eyes and your heart. It can bring you peace.

And if you’re lucky, it might even help you see the red in the peppers.