Please accept my condolences. I am sorry for your loss.
I guess I’m an intermediate between the first two: I don’t need to know all the details, but no sugarcoating please. That’s the general attitude in all my paternal family, both for our own illnesses and for those of our loved ones. We tend to die of either cancer or old age*. When someone gets the first they usually ask around to see if anybody else had the same type, to have an idea what to expect, and well, the second cause isn’t exactly something you can hide.
- One of my uncles died of a heart attack, in his late 60s. Bunch of weirdos that we are, people were both sadenned by the news and surprised by the CoD. “Heart attack? Are you sure?”
It’s been 51 years since my father died. Everyone lied to me about the nature of his illness. Finally, just before he lapsed into a coma, I learned the truth. I get along with my family, true; but I’ve never ever forgiven them.
Both my wife and my mother had their fathers die when the girls where fairly young. In both cases the family kept the whole thing a secret up to the very end. And both women are not real happy now about how that went down.
It’s not a big daily issue, but it’s a cause of lingering regret. We can never know how they’d feel today if they’d been allowed to be more involved at the time. But they sure *think *they’d be happier now had it been handled differently then.
Maybe she didn’t want everyone sitting around looking at her like she was a deer hit in the middle of the road. It’s her right to tell people about herself whatever she wants.
I think a more interesting poll would be “Who are you morally obligated to tell if you are terminally ill?”
Poll forth! No one’s stopping you.
Telling people also opens one up to dealing with the assholes. Most people in my family I wouldn’t have minded knowing, but I knew that in telling them my aunt would know, too. She’s a self-absorbed POS. Even knowing that, the indifference would’ve hurt me. I told her afterwards, and nope, she didn’t really give a shit. Unbelievable.
It still hurts. She only got this way as she got older; when I was a kid I idolized her. Her kids are messed up so it could be worse, but damn.
So no, I didn’t want to deal with that crap on top of everything else.
If I was terminally ill, I think I’d put a sign on my door saying:
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Yes, I’m dying.
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No, I don’t mind talking about it. Feel free to ask me how I feel about it.
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The quick version: It’s complicated. You know I’ve got a pretty strong faith, but that one-way door out of this life is, quite frankly, a bit intimidating regardless.
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We can talk about that, or about how the Nats are doing, or anything else under the sun. But come on in, and don’t feel you have to pretend everything’s normal. Because, you know, it’s not.
I’d want to know, but I can understand why some people would want to keep it secret. I would tell close family and friends, but I doubt I would tell most other people. I wouldn’t want to deal with all their crap.
of course