Our very short lives are punctuated—somewhat unfairly—by an awareness of death. A certainty of mortality. Our own or that of others. What existential psychologist Irvin Yalom, a man who has reckoned his mortality, calls "awakenings." Moments we realize we, too, will die.

In 1995, Robert McCrum, a longtime editor and author, suffered a stroke at age 42. Although fully recovered, he has lived in the shadow of death, companioned by its unrelenting promise to return at an inestimable future.   McCrum entered my world long ago with his biography of P.G. Wodehouse. I'm drawn to anyone who adores Wodehouse (like the illustrious Stephen Fry). 
Here, McCrum is again on death, something Wodehouse would have found a waste of time. Since no Wodehousian characters ever die (or age), and Wodehouse himself wrote up until his death... I wonder. "It's all a bit quite rummy," he would have said. And thrown in a pickled herring for good measure.

McCrum wrote Every Third Thought: On Life and Death and the End Game in 2017 on the heels of a fall (a "tumble"; McCrum explores different words for it) that reminded McCrum that mortality is the price to pay for life.

Ever since I fell dramatically ill one night in July 1995, I have found myself in the shadow of death. From the moment I woke on that distant summer morning, I have been an involuntary citizen of a world I have had to learn to live in, to be at peace with.

McCrum pulls in others who ponder death—many we will recognize and adore, like Terry Pratchett, who died slowly from Alzheimer's and said it was like he had two diseases: "One was the Alzheimer's and the other was knowing I had Alzheimer's."   This self-awareness of suffering is exactly what C.S. Lewis wrote about grief: that he had to both suffer grief and suffer being aware of his grief. No doubt Pratchett was grieving aspects of himself. Or Prunella Scales, one of my favorite actresses, perfectly paired with John Cleese in "Fawlty Towers," and suffers from the same disease.   Scales and her husband, fellow actor Timothy West, have spoken quite candidly about her dementia and the effect it's had on their lives. From her engagement, Scales seems quite healthy, but, of course, that is why the disease is horrid.

Photograph by Ellen Vrana.

The commonality of McCrum's collected individuals who think about death is that they are all older than sixty. But death pondering is not the occupation of the old. McCrum cautions—but doesn't lecture—the young:

This reminds anyone who has lived as if they were immortal that there are no privileges or exceptions—no backstage passes. The remorseless passage of time and the unwelcome intrusion of physical frailty must finally confront everyone with the same inevitable reckoning.

Ultimately, what stands out for McCrum or perhaps arrives at him after so much investigation and work is to accept the limits of our control, what Albert Camus argued was an absurd life. To manage wellness, to live in now, and to accept fate.

Photograph by Ellen Vrana.

There is a deep open-heartedness in Every Third Thought and, against all odds, a run towards vulnerability rather than a barricading against it.

The celebration of 'nowness' must involve a rapprochement with the will-power: the passivity of acceptance. I am certain that, at the end, I shall be listening, not speaking; absorbing or perhaps receiving, not transmitting. When the ferryman arrives to transport me across the dark waters of the Styx, there may be no one to talk to anymore, and—another 'What if?'—perhaps I shall be no longer able to speak.

Every Third Thought is a book of intense personal reflection and honesty. It is an enduring comfort.   I seem to be collecting death meditations recently. Death, ageing, becoming a parent; it changes your perspective. 
At least, you benefit from the ruminations. Like this reflection on our post-death placement, Do We Exist Where We Are Buried? and collected wisdom from those in their empurpled-skied hours, The Gifts and Grace of Old Age.

For other ruminations on our relentless thoughts of mortality (and perhaps finding peace with it), read Irvin Yalom's gentle, compassionate look at how our connection to others mitigates our death anxiety. I also found comfort in the Letters of John Keats, a man who knew he was dying from tuberculous but kept the warm company of many friends. Susan Sontag did the same at her reckoning.

Something in us doesn't want to be alone in our thoughts about death. Or, more simply, something in us doesn't want to be alone.