Happily Ever After

"To live happily ever after, it helps to be reminded of your mortality." — Scottish proverb

Dan Gurney with his son and three of his five grandchildren.

By Dan Gurney

More than 40 years ago—I wasn’t yet 30 years old—and long before anyone called Sebastopol “Peacetown,” I learned that a valve in my heart, the aorta, would someday have to be replaced.

Twenty-three years ago my Dad had had his own aorta trouble when my kids were in high school. I was worried for him and visited him in the hospital right after he had his surgery. I thought about canceling a college tour for my daughter. His doctors told me that he'd be fine. Dad wanted us to go ahead with our tour of Southern California colleges and check in with him on our way back to Sebastopol. So we took our tour. I got a call in L.A. that Dad died in the hospital while trying to recover from his surgery.

I delayed my own aorta surgery for as long as I dared. More than 10 years went by as I got sicker and sicker. My world shrank. One by one, I began to give up my favorite outdoor pleasures: road cycling, long hikes, short hikes, sailing, paddling, walks in the neighborhood. Eventually I got so out of shape that it was a workout just walking from the back door of Copperfield’s to my car in the parking lot behind the library.

Ten years ago, in the late fall of 2014, doctors told me that I had to make a choice: heart surgery or death. It was time, and I knew it. In December, they opened my chest and sewed into my heart an aorta taken from a cow (or a steer, I’m not sure).

Recovery was slow at first. I learned how to play the piano. My teacher turned out to be a 40-year-old pianist working at Stanroy's in Santa Rosa, who had been one of my first kindergarten students from back in the 1980s. I play almost every night before going to bed. I play for fun by ear and end with a lullaby. It’s a pure pleasure for me, an escape from 2024. My wife thinks I’m pretty good, and that’s good enough for me!

As the months went by, I got stronger and fitter than I thought possible. I can hike, even in the Sierras. At 64 years of age, I discovered for the first time in my life what it feels like to go hiking and have my legs get tired before my heart. I can take long bike rides. I sail on sporty little sailboats designed for younger sailors. My wife and I can enjoy our favorite activities: paddling, bicycling, hiking, sailing, and camping. We travel to see our kids and grandkids in Philadelphia, New York, and Austin.

I got to wondering if I might have 15 more years to live. Could I live to 80? To 90? To 103? I began to think I might almost live happily ever after.

Then early this year, my doctors told me that I have advanced prostate cancer. They cannot cure it, but they can treat it and slow it down some. Cancer treatments can have some lousy side effects. I shall refrain from discussing most of them, but let me describe the one that happens to bother me the most right now: chronic and severe hot flashes and chills. I’m frequently either uncomfortably cold and shivering, or uncomfortably hot and sweating. Women who complain about hot flashes now have my tardy and heartfelt sympathy.

Cancer has many downsides, but there are upsides, too. Cancer whets my appetite for being alive. Living fully, living authentically feels more urgent. I am still here. I am hungrier than ever to find meaning in every moment.

When I realized how little time I might have left, I could not imagine wishing I had spent another moment of that precious time online, on social media, or watching videos. So goodbye Netflix, Amazon Prime, and all the rest of it. I never got much into social media.

I go outdoors in my garden, my yard, our neighborhood and in nature. Nature’s wonders delight and amaze me. Things seem bright, colorful, vivid, tasty, aromatic, interesting, beautiful, mysterious.

Cancer motivates me to assess my human relationships and repair and deepen the significant ones, notably with my siblings. Each of us five siblings endured our own unique combination of adverse childhood experiences. I’m grateful I’ve had the chance to work on the repairs. I mend and build relationships with my friends and family using tools like the cellphone as a telephone to call and talk, sending in-the-mail cards and letters (many handwritten in cursive), and visiting people in person. I walk around town on errands. I read real books borrowed from the library.

I’ve told some of my closest friends about my cancer, and that I love them and why. First and foremost, my wife and my best friend forever. We’ve been together 54 years. I am still learning how wonderful she is. I’m sad that I'll likely make her a widow. She reminds me that there’s no guarantee that I get to go first. That’s wise and sobering, right there.

I love our kids and grandkids. They warm my heart. When I see close members of my family, happy tears spill from my eyes. I love my best friend from childhood, and I've told him so.

Having to die someday is something we have in common with every living being, human and otherwise. Remembering our shared mortality helps crack open and heal our broken hearts. When I feel sad, I remind myself that my death is nothing new: my death was assured the day I was born.

Someday, too soon, my life will be over. I have to be fine with that. Mostly I am fine with it. Sometimes not so fine with it. I’m human.

But I am grateful that I have had the chance and the ability to enjoy the natural world, and to tell loved ones: I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU!

My body shall remain earthbound, a green burial in Sebastopol’s Pleasant Hill Cemetery, wrapped in a cotton shroud. The underground mycelial network, our wood-wide web, will begin to recycle the molecules and atoms that lived together as my body when the last breath escaped. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, sulfur, phosphorous, calcium, iron, plus a few others will come apart and rearrange themselves to make marvelous, wonderful new living beings, flowers, grasses, trees, and—who knows—maybe even some magic mushrooms! And I will rest in Peacetown...happily ever after.

Dan Gurney retired after teaching kindergarten for 33 years just outside of Sebastopol. He has five grandchildren who amaze, amuse, and delight him.

---