The Kindness of Knowing When It's Time to Say Goodbye

An unexpected email, a simple request, and a lesson in humanity I didn't know I needed.

On Monday, I received an email from a gentleman who subscribes to GoNaked Magazine. He had a simple request. He wanted to make sure his subscription wouldn't automatically renew in January, but he also wanted to continue receiving our newsletters.

Nothing particularly unusual about that.

I receive these requests more often than you might imagine, especially these days. The economy has forced people to make difficult decisions. When you're watching every penny, a $29 or $59 annual subscription can become one more expense you simply can't justify. For some people, that's a dinner out. For others, it might mean the difference between paying a bill and putting groceries in the refrigerator.

I've never taken those cancellations personally. Life happens. Circumstances change. And the last thing I want is for anyone to feel guilty about choosing their financial well-being over a magazine subscription.

But this email was different.

The gentleman, whom I'll call Tom to protect his privacy, explained that he was preparing for the end of his life.

He wasn't complaining. He wasn't looking for sympathy. He wasn't asking for anything beyond making certain his subscription wouldn't renew after January.

He was simply getting his affairs in order.

And for reasons I'm still trying to understand, that email stopped me in my tracks.

The Little Things That Say So Much

I've spent a considerable amount of time thinking about Tom since Monday.

Here is a man who knows something that most of us spend our lives trying not to think about. His remaining time is limited. Whether that means weeks, months, or something longer, I don't know. He didn't share those details, and they aren't mine to ask for.

What he did share was that he's preparing.

He's going through the ordinary business of living and quietly bringing things to a close. Subscriptions. Renewals. Accounts. Obligations. All those little pieces of our everyday lives that we accumulate without giving them much thought.

And what struck me most wasn't that he was canceling a magazine. It was that, in the middle of facing his own mortality, he was still thinking about the people who would be left behind.

Someone would eventually have to deal with those accounts. Someone might have to make phone calls, cancel subscriptions, sort through paperwork, or discover another automatic charge on a credit card belonging to a man who was no longer here to use it.

And Tom, apparently, didn't want to leave that burden to someone else.

I have a feeling I know something about Tom, even though we've never met.

I'll bet he's the kind of guy who returns his shopping cart to the corral instead of leaving it in the middle of the parking lot.

I'll bet he's the guy who pushes his chair back under the table when he finishes eating at a restaurant. The kind of person who picks up something he didn't drop, holds the door for someone coming behind him, or leaves a place just a little better than he found it.

Not because anyone is watching. Not because he expects a thank-you.

But because he's thinking about the next person.

The employee who has to collect the shopping carts. The server who has to reset the table. The stranger who comes along after him.

And now, at the end of his life, he's doing exactly the same thing.

He's thinking about the people who will come after him, and he's doing what he can to make their lives a little easier.

There's something extraordinarily beautiful about that.

A Different Kind of Generosity

I like to think of myself as an empathetic person.

I try to put myself in other people's shoes. I try to remember that everyone is carrying something we know absolutely nothing about. I try to be patient when people are difficult, understanding when they're struggling, and generous when someone needs a little grace.

Do I always succeed? Hell, no.

But I try.

And yet, Tom's email introduced me to a level of consideration I hadn't fully appreciated before.

We usually think of generosity as something we give while we're living. Money. Time. Attention. Encouragement. A helping hand when someone needs one.

But there's another form of generosity that receives considerably less attention.

It's the generosity of not leaving unnecessary burdens behind.

It's making the difficult phone call yourself so someone else doesn't have to. It's putting things in order, not because doing so benefits you, but because it might spare someone you love a little confusion or heartache when they're already dealing with enough.

Of course, not everyone has the opportunity or the strength to prepare for death in this way. Sometimes life ends suddenly. Sometimes illness takes away our ability to make decisions. Sometimes simply getting through another day requires every ounce of energy we have.

There is no right way to die, and certainly no requirement to leave the world with every loose end neatly tied.

But when someone has the opportunity to make things easier for others and chooses to spend some of their remaining time doing exactly that, I think it's worth recognizing.

Because that's love, too.

Perhaps one of its quietest forms.

The People on the Other Side of the Screen

When you publish a magazine or newsletter, it's easy to get caught up in the numbers. Subscribers. Renewals. Open rates. Clicks. Revenue.

You start looking at lists and spreadsheets, and sometimes it's easy to forget that every single name represents an actual human being.

A man with a history. Friends. Family, perhaps. Regrets. Accomplishments. Private fears. Wonderful memories. Things he's proud of and things he wishes he'd done differently.

Some of our readers are enjoying the best years of their lives. Others are struggling. Some are lonely. Some are grieving. Some are dealing with illnesses they haven't told a soul about. Some are finding love at 70, rediscovering themselves after a lifetime of hiding, or finally learning to like the body looking back at them in the mirror.

And some, like Tom, are quietly preparing to say goodbye.

I don't know Tom personally. We've never shared a meal, enjoyed a vacation together, or had one of those wonderful conversations that somehow stretches into the early morning hours.

And yet, here I am, thinking about him.

I'm wondering whether he has someone holding his hand when he needs it. I'm wondering whether he's finding moments of peace. And I'm wondering whether he knows that a simple email about a magazine subscription made someone stop and reconsider what it means to care for other people.

A Small Promise

I wrote back to Tom.

I assured him that he'd handled his cancellation correctly, that his subscription wouldn't renew, and that he hadn't accidentally removed himself from our newsletter list.

I thanked him for his years of support. And I thanked him for the quiet lesson he'd just given me about dying with dignity and thinking of others.

We have a deal that he is going to check in with me every month starting in January, and I'll make sure that he gets that month's issue of the magazine

What We Leave Behind

I've been thinking about what I'd want people to remember about me when my time comes.

Like most people, I suppose I'd hope they remember some of the things I've accomplished, the places I've been, the adventures I've had, and the laughter we've shared.

But the older I get, the more I realize that the things we accomplish aren't necessarily the things that matter most.

What matters is how we make people feel.

Did we make someone's day a little brighter? Did we make someone feel welcome? Did we give someone a reason to laugh when laughter was hard to come by?

Did we make life a little easier for someone else?

Did we love people well?

I don't imagine Tom thought he was doing anything remarkable when he sat down to write that email. He was probably working through a list of things that needed attention, and GoNaked happened to be one of them.

Just another task to cross off.

But that simple act of consideration reached across the distance between two people who barely know each other and taught one of them something important.

Me.

And now, by sharing this story, perhaps he's teaching a few more of us.

I don't know how much time Tom has left. I hope it's filled with comfort, peace, familiar voices, and as many good days as life will allow.

I hope he continues opening our newsletters. I hope something in them makes him laugh.

And if January rolls around and there's another email from him in my inbox, I can promise you one thing.

It will be one of the happiest emails I open that day.

Thank you, Tom.

For supporting this magazine, yes. But even more for reminding me that kindness isn't always about grand gestures or extraordinary sacrifices.

Sometimes it's as simple as returning a shopping cart, pushing in a chair, or canceling a subscription so somebody else won't have to.

It's thinking about the next person.

And perhaps that's something all of us could practice a little more often, long before it's time to say goodbye.

Because when all is said and done, maybe the measure of a life well lived isn't how much we took from this world, but how much easier we made it for the people who came after us.