Death Never Scared Me. Not Living Fully—That Was the Terrifying Part.
I write this in the past tense because tonight, at 8 p.m., I’ll be signing off. By that, I mean I will be moving forward with MAID—Medical Assistance in Dying. Two years ago, when I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I knew I had a pancreas, but I couldn’t have explained its purpose if you’d bribed me. I certainly didn’t know it could turn into such a spectacular troublemaker.
But trouble it caused. The cancer has traveled to my lungs, liver, lymph nodes, and spine. I even named one of the tumors Donald Trump because it kept expanding aggressively into spaces where it absolutely did not belong. At this point it’s the size of a very disappointing ballroom—horrific gold decorations included. Unfortunately, Stage IV pancreatic cancer doesn’t negotiate; survival odds sit around 3%.
And yet, I leave with almost no regrets. I am grateful—deeply, overwhelmingly grateful—to have lived a good and full life. I married far above my pay grade and somehow enjoyed forty astonishing years with her. She made me want to be a better husband and father every day. My family means everything to me. They have shaped me into whom I am. I’ve traveled to remarkable places, walked trails that felt like dreams, and collected friends remarkable enough to call my besties. With only hours left, what fills me most is gratitude, and a kind of surprising happiness. I am surrounded by family and grand dog, Puggly.
Choosing what to wear to my own death was a bit perplexing. With the cancer, I’ve lost enough weight to fix int the tux from my wedding. Or business casual? Something minimalist like Steve Jobs? Well, comfort won. Sweats, boxers, and my Superman T-shirt. Let the record show I left this world dressed clearly and unapologetically as myself. And no—the “S” is not for Superman. In Kryptonian, it stands for hope, a symbol that has always meant more to me than his cape.
I know the world feels heavy right now—conflict, climate upheaval, illness, poverty, leaders who treat kindness like not an option. Just when you think we’ve hit bottom, someone like Trump, Putin, Steven Miller, Hagseth shows up digging for a new low. No matter what, I still believe in human resilience. That’s because I see hope most clearly when I’m with my friends, family and especially with the next generation.
I leave in complete peace, with a smile on my face, and—strangely enough—with a sense of cool wonder that I get to go out on my own terms. I made a deal with the doctor: my grand-dog Puggly will be on my lap. He gets to stay around but will keep me connected as I cross. The whole process takes about fifteen minutes, in a quiet, warm room on the University of British Columbia campus. My wife and daughters will be with me. The doctor has even assured me I will not crap my pants, which apparently is a common concern. Consider that my final medical fun fact.
After I cross over, I don’t know what will happen, but I’ll be looking for my past dogs—Stanley, Clark, and Kal-El—tails wagging, I hope, and ready to show me around. Maybe where we are, they throw the sticks and we retrieve them. Wait, I think that’s what we are doing when they were here. I’d throw a stick and then they would run to it and wait for me to come to them and throw it again.
It feels strange to say I am ready to leave, but I am. I am not afraid of death. What I fear is staying and facing a level of pain that no longer leaves room for living. The hydromorphone and methadone helped—until they didn’t. I’ve been grateful for life, but this version of it no longer reflects what I believe a life should be. The hardest part, truly, will be missing you.
Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for the experiences. Thank you for showing up for me—constantly, generously, and often. I love you, and I wish you joy, comfort, and a life lived as fully as you can bear. My last words for you, “Tag. You’re it.” And, a question, if you can fart, are you really dead?
Dan