I, too, am dying
A reflection on death and life
“The Dalai Lama, when asked what surprised him most about humanity, answered, ‘Man! Because he sacrifices his health in order to make money. Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health. And then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present; the result being that he does not live in the present or the future; he lives as if he is never going to die, and then dies having never really lived.’” [1]
The first time I watched a mouse necropsy was a transformative experience. In research, a mouse necropsy is the process in which mice that have served as experimental subjects are euthanized and dissected for data collection — an essential step for assessing toxicity, disease, and phenotypic changes.
It was the start of the fall semester of my junior year. When I first joined the lab, I wanted nothing to do with mouse necropsies. I preferred anything else — cell culture, computational work, writing — anything.
Still, during my first week, my mentor very kindly invited me to observe a necropsy. As a new undergraduate in the lab, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. So I walked into the lab across from our office.
Before anything began, I noticed the mice. They moved with a kind of unfiltered energy — circling their own tails, chasing each other, scurrying to drink water. On other days, I would later see them huddled together, fast asleep, their tiny bodies rising and falling if I stood still long enough to notice. In both their motion and their stillness, in their individuality and their closeness to one another, what I saw — clearly and unmistakably — was life.
And then, on that same day, I watched them die.
Within minutes, the mice went from living to not. Their bodies remained in front of me, unchanged in form yet emptied of something essential. Life, it seemed, could leave so quickly — through the adjustment of a few physical parameters, a quick intervention. In that moment, I felt the fragility of life in a way I hadn’t before.
I had encountered death in other contexts — as an EMT in high school and as an interfaith hospital chaplain in college. But this felt different. Perhaps it was the immediacy. Perhaps it was directly seeing the actions’ causal role. Or perhaps it was a deepening of my own maturity. Whatever the reason, this experience brought mortality closer to me — made it more tangible, more proximate, and more difficult to abstract away.
After euthanasia, we began the process of data collection. Blood was drawn directly from the heart. Then came the collection of organs: lungs, liver, kidneys, spleen, pancreas—and, in later instances, brain. I was struck by how quickly the procedure became technical and methodical, and I was beyond enthralled by the work. All the same, I was deeply aware that this body, which had been full with life minutes earlier, was now something else entirely. I was no longer observing living life; I was confronting its material remains.
What stayed with me most, though, came at the end.
When everything was complete, the mice were respectfully placed into a body bag. Something about that moment forced a recognition I could not ignore: My body, too, is made of flesh and bone and blood. I am not fundamentally different from this mouse. For all the uncertainties in life, one thing is certain — my life, too, will leave my body one day.
Despite what my 21-year-old mind might suggest, I am not exempt from mortality. Whatever I accumulate, achieve, or protect in this lifetime — regardless of how safe a bank it is in or the insurance I have on it — none of it will come with me when I die. I will leave as I came: with nothing.
Sometimes, I find myself wondering about the mice I work with. What were their aspirations? Was there something they were moving toward? Was there a moment they were about to enjoy? Did they have a future that was suddenly cut short?
I ask these questions because they turn me back toward a deeper reflection on the nature of myself and the way I live. [2] They bring me to recognize that while I may have aspirations, hopes, dreams, fears, prides, concerns, cares, angst, regrets, insecurities, and questions, when death comes to take me, they will not only be interrupted but will cease to exist, or perhaps cease to even matter at all. They bring me to realize that I, too, am dying.
I don’t know when or where. And I hope, with all my heart, that we all live long, healthy, and meaningful lives filled with joy, happiness, and service. And all the same, with every passing second, moment, and day, I am dying. My timer is ticking.
The biggest change this thought — of “I, too, will die” — has made in my life is that my perception of things now unfolds against that background.
Did something go wrong today? I, too, will die — and it’s not that deep.
Did something not work out the way I hoped? I, too, will die — and it’s not that deep.
Did I waste time, make a mistake, or have to start over? I, too, will die — and it’s not that deep.
Taken to an extreme, this line of thinking becomes: nothing matters.
A friend once suggested that there are two ways of understanding this idea. One way is commonly referred to as the nihilist view. It says: Nothing matters, so nothing is worth caring about. Why try? Why care? Why not let everything fall apart?
Another way of understanding this is the absurdist view: Nothing matters in the way we once thought — and that is precisely what makes life open. If life is guaranteed to end, then what if I choose to be good, do good, and enjoy the time I have? What if I live passionately, take myself less seriously, and laugh more easily?
I — with as much certainty as the often-wavering mind of a 21-year-old can be relied on to have — love the absurdist view described above. It has made it easier to laugh — at myself, at small frustrations, at inevitable imperfections, and sometimes even at life’s catastrophes — and to take life less personally, less seriously, and less heavily. Confronting my mortality has not made life feel smaller; If anything, it has made it feel lighter — and in some ways, more expansive. I hope that, as I move forward — however long that may be — I can hold onto this perspective, so as not to get too caught up in the daily churn of stress and self-absorption to an extent that I lose both myself and sight of the bigger picture. So as to live, if you will, more freely.
[1] While this is popularly attributed to the Dalai Lama, I am not able to find a record of him saying the quote. Nonetheless, the message of this text is salient.
[2] I don’t ask these questions here to discuss the ethics of animal research. For the purposes of this reflection, they serve to deepen our investigation of living in the face of death. That said, I support conducting animal research with the utmost thought, care, compassion, and respect for life.
[3] While the absurdist view lightens the weight of life’s gravity, it does not absolve us of responsibility. On the contrary, recognizing that my ego and personal concerns matter less has only heightened my sense of duty to contribute — to make the world more just, compassionate, and fair in whatever small ways I can.