We talk so much about how we want to live — but how often do we talk about how we want to die?
Death is a taboo topic. Most people squirm in discomfort when the topic of death is mentioned, as if it’s something separate from living. Think about it, will there be life without death?
As a nurse, I see death often. I don’t cringe, I don’t squirm or look away. It’s familiar, almost expected. I’ve even thought about my own end — not out of fear, but out of curiosity and acceptance.
I don’t wish for a long life. Eighty years sounds just right to me. Beyond that, I imagine only confusion, hospital beds, and forgetting what day it is. What’s the point of extending life when the quality has already slipped away? Why try to defeat death when it’s obviously holding me by the hand?
So when people ask me, “How would you like to die?” I have an answer — one that’s calm, detailed, and mine alone.
My Ideal Death
Everyone’s default answer is “in my sleep.” But mine is a little more specific than that.
At the age of 80, I want to die in my villa — quietly, peacefully, and prepared. A few hours before my death, I’ll ask my nurse to wheel me to my lake or pond. I’ll have a warm blanket across my knees and the soft breeze brushing my face. I’ll feed the ducks, watch the birds cross the sky, and take in the sunlight filtering through the trees.
In that moment, I’ll think of everyone I’ve met and loved. I’ll have already said goodbye to my friends and whispered a quiet “See you soon” to my husband, who will have passed before me.
After my peaceful afternoon, I’ll be wheeled back inside. My nurses will help me get ready for dinner — a simple meal of arroz caldo. At eighty, I probably won’t have many teeth left, and that warm, comforting porridge from my youth will be perfect. The tang of garlic, the umami of broth — familiar, comforting, and deeply Filipino.
After dinner, I’ll ask my assistant to call three people: my doctor, my lawyer, and a priest. They’ll all meet me in my bedroom.
My doctor will already know what to do. I would have told him beforehand to bring the medications necessary for my death. My lawyer will carry my final will and testament and ask if I have any last-minute instructions. I’ll tell him to ensure that all my affairs are in order — my cremation arranged, my books donated, my belongings divided between family and charity, and my ashes buried beside my husband.
Before eternal sleep takes me, I’ll point to my bedside table where I keep my old diaries and letters. I’ll tell my lawyer to burn them with my body — I want those private words, filled with love and memory, to go with me. And before they leave, I’ll ask that all my farewell letters be sent to the people who mattered most.
Then, my priest will say a final prayer. I’ll ask forgiveness for my sins, close my eyes, and accept whatever fate awaits my soul.
Finally, I’ll turn to my doctor and tell him to do it. He will, and I’ll fall asleep — this time, forever.
Dying Alone
People often ask me, “Why do you want to die alone?”
The answer is simple: because I want dignity.
When death comes, emotions take over — people cry, panic, plead. I’d rather my last moments not be met with hysteria. I want quiet. Peace. Acceptance. The time to say goodbye to me isn’t at my deathbed, but before it.
Why should anyone cry for me when I can no longer hear their tears?
It is my death, the end of my existence. Let me have it the way I want it. My life began without my consent — at least let me choose how it ends.
A Peaceful Ending
Death is never neat. It’s not romantic, nor as serene as the movies show. It’s not gory either — just messy, raw, and natural. The body begins to release what it’s held even before the final heartbeat. That’s why I want nurses by my side. They’ll know what to do. They’ve seen it before.
My death won’t be tragic or dramatic. It will be simple and arranged — everything taken care of, even paid for, before I go. I don’t want to leave debts or burdens. I don’t want people cursing my name while sorting out funeral costs. My life has been smooth sailing; my death should be too.
As for the priest — honestly, I don’t know. I’m agnostic now, but I was raised Catholic. Maybe deep down, I’m still afraid of hell, or maybe I just crave peace in prayer. There’s something calming about a blessing, about hearing someone whisper that your soul is safe. Perhaps, in the end, faith finds us all again.
When my time comes, I won’t resist it. I’ll welcome it like an old friend — steady, familiar, and finally here.
So tell me, dear wonderer —
How would you like to die?