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This morning my local radio personalities discussed a potential new television program hosted by Jeff Probst of “Survivor” fame. Their reactions and the reactions of their callers were so strongly negative that I had to find out more:
The show, Live Like You’re Dying, will feature a person who has been given a terminal diagnosis with a finite amount of time to live and “take them on the last adventure of their life,” according to Probst. That adventure will include reunions with lost friends or formerly feuding family members, a “legacy moment” that will ensure their name carries on forever, and living out a personal dream.
Read the full post’s comments for a condemnation of how offensive, morbid and exploitative folks imagine this show will be. I have a feeling that many reading here might feel the same way. However, I don’t see it that way at all. In fact I see enormous potential for such a show. Here’s why.
We assign great (sometimes even sacred) meaning to life’s most emotional events: the birth of a child, the removal of a foreskin, the consumption of bread and juice, the toss of a cap, the placing of rings on fingers, the signing of papers. We want others to know. We talk and write about them. We remember.
We have a long history of recording and sharing these significant life events. Moments of extreme emotion are shared with friends, families and even strangers by inviting them physically to witness. If they can’t be with us, we take pictures and video so that we can share.
And not only are we interested in our own life events, but we’ve also begun eagerly to watch strangers’ accounts of searching for true love, getting married, giving birth, raising children, raising more children, losing weight, telling secrets, eating bugs and just plain living.
I grant that none of the above programs may be stellar examples of televised brilliance, but they do give evidence to our deep fascination with observing how our fellow humans deal with the business of being human.
Sure, parts are contrived, but don’t we always endeavor to look our best for the sake of history? Who hasn’t cozied up to a disliked family member for the camera, or ignored discomfort to give a good bit of video, or sucked in a stomach or stood up straighter or jockeyed for the best angle? The camera captures an idealized slice, not the actual moment.
And so I wonder, given our enduring interest in sharing our own and others’ emotional events, why we’d hesitate in turning our attention to the end of a life? How is this “sick” or “obscene,” as some commentators labeled it? Is there something intrinsically private about dying?
Or are we simply terrified of what we might see? Are we scared of acknowledging pain, loss, grief? Are we so weak that we can glibly agree to bear witness to the joyful events but not the tragic ones? Do we pretend that if we pay no attention to death, it won’t pay attention to us?
Silly, that.
Some argue that a show like this might exploit the terminally ill. You could possibly make that case if somehow the producers managed to ambush patients moments after they received their diagnoses, shoved microphones in their faces, lingered over their tears, then ran footage without consent. That’s exploitative.
But this would feature volunteers who (presumably) would be fully aware that their and their families’ actions would be scrutinized my millions of couch-bound critics. They’re no more being exploited than are the unkempt folks who ask Clinton and Stacy or Tim Gunn for style advice, or overweight celebrities who let the world watch them suffer and sweat. They’ve made a choice to open their lives — or deaths — and their choice removes all question of exploitation.
I actually think a show such as this has the potential to be enormously beautiful as well as educational. I would love to see how different families handle end-of-life issues. How do the dying define their experiences’ ultimate meaning? This is what I’d hope to see.
Of course, even the best of ideas could be ruined by unscrupulous producers, overzealous product placement, miserable writing or a host of other intangibles impossible to predict months in advance. Any of those things might make this show an abysmal failure.
But I hold out hope that it can be lovely, compelling and provocative. I hope it encourages people to talk about death with calm compassion instead of whispered terror. I hope it portrays terminally ill people sucking the marrow of what’s left and readying themselves for the end, because that would be ten-thousand times more soul-searing than the eating of any bug or the emptying of any closet.
Is this too much to hope for?
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Thank you Tony Comstock, Wendy Blackheart and of course Butterfly Temptress for talking with me about this today.

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