Without tubes and wires

The Over the Hill Gang have reached that “men of a certain age” stage of life, a time when we take note of the high mileage on our bodies’ odometers and ruminate about our preferred exit ramp from this mortal highway that has taken us through the wild lands of sunlight and shadow, tears and laughter, storms and halcyon days. Our campfire conversations sometimes drift smokily into our preferences for a fitting end to our decades-long adventure novels, stories we made up as we went along, without a well-developed outline, often lacking a plot, occasionally maudlin or sorrowful, frequently humorous (if inappropriate humor counts), seldom grim or scandalous, but always following a theme of noir pragmatism.

No man gets out of this lifelong vision quest alive. As we near the mountaintop we accept, in fact we welcome, our end of days. But grant us the grace to go out in style, or at least in a manner that is apropos to our character.

One Old Coot of the OTH Gang has told us that his preferred leap across the chasm should be memorable and dramatic. It is his goal, he declares, to be shot to death at age 85 by the jealous boyfriend of a beautiful 30-year-old woman. Every man is entitled to flights of fantasy when planning his Final Exit, but his, I fear, have soared into clouds so dense that he has lost all perception of earthly reality. No woman could possibly be interested in romantic dalliance with any of us in our current condition. Unless we won the billion-dollar Powerball lottery, I suppose. The most likely scenario for being shot to death in our senior years is a road rage incident caused by letting our left turn signal light blink on and on and on as we poke along at 55 miles per hour on an interstate highway, hardly the tale of bravado a man would choose for his obituary.

Most of the Coots have more modest plans for escape. One would prefer going to sleep in his deer blind, a quick nap just before dawn on opening day of the season, and never waking up, a brilliant bit of savoir faire in our hunting fraternity, especially if the blind is accessible by motor vehicle so that his hunting companions do not have to drag his body uphill or through heavy brush. He does take a risk, however, that the OTH Gang’s final memory of his passing will not be “the first day of deer season when Howard went to his happy hunting grounds reward” but as “the opening day that Howard died and ruined the whole muzzle-loader season for everyone.”

Taking leave of our worldly cares while on a fishing trip is an increasingly common proposition, and that final day is becoming evermore likely given the diminishing ability of every OTH Gang member to stay on his feet while wearing chest waders in a fast-flowing stream, or losing his balance and falling out of the boat and sinking into a deep Minnesota lake like a moss-covered rock. A poor fisherman and a worse swimmer, I find this method unappealing, especially since the Coots who take me fishing would boast of their prowess in locating and retrieving my body with the aid of their damned fishfinders.

There could be a measure of mystery and romance if the fishing day Final Exit story included the narrative “he went off in a canoe one stormy morning and was never seen again.” But the panfish lakes of Minnesota do not exactly have the sinister ambience of the Bermuda Triangle.

For me, the best ending would be a sudden heart stoppage when a trio of rooster pheasants or a covey of prairie grouse explodes at my feet as I step in front of my French spaniel Abbey who is locked on point, frozen and on fire at the same time, a brisk wind blowing and a dome of blue sky streaked with cirrus clouds stretching to the distant horizons. That is certainly possible; I am on the verge of cardiac arrest a few times every bird season.

We seemed doomed to live out the final chapters of our lives in this era when medical science has succeeded in adding a decade or more to our lifespan but has failed to extend the joys and rewards and fullness of living during those final10 or 15 years. Instead of struggling with diminishing physical and mental proficiencies, what a blessing it would be to end our lives on a day of gladness. To experience that final moment not in a hospice bed, trailing tubes and wires, confused and gasping for breath, but atop a windswept ridge in the shortgrass prairie, heart giving out from excitement and overexertion, joyful and clear-headed while an open sky arches overhead and the world is a wild burst of gamebirds and dogs and friends in a beautiful country.

If I could choose my Final Exit Day (but none of us can really choose, can we?), that would be my stepping off place, my departure time. A perfect ending to a wonder-filled life.