Economists like to use the prompt — solve for the equilibrium. Oversimplified, the phrase challenges the responder to find the point where everyone’s interests are met.

A memorial service is a kind of market. Dad had an explicit wish for one thing. Others would like to see something else. No one participant in this market is right, and no one is wrong — there are just different interests to consider. The goal of the market maker, the siblings, is to find a way to meet everyone’s interests with the least amount of waste (hurt feelings, anger, resentment, lifelong grudges, and wrecked families).

Within 72 hours cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, kids, passerby, and maybe ne’er-do-well pepper me with questions like — when is the funeral? who is invited? when will the burial be? can they attend?These people all mean well, and I love them. They want and need closure. They want to participate. They want to help. They want to show support. I love it! Truly. I just don’t understand it.Who has these details figured out immediately? For my siblings, they’re still figuring out their day and what they’ll do next. They’re stressed. The LAST thing they want to think about are these details. Me, meh, I prefer to work on these things on a work day as this feels like work to me. I realize these are natural questions. And I am sure some families have these things ironed out well in advance. But we did not intentionally. We didn’t know when Dad would pass. And, we didn’t know what we didn’t know — those are terrible conditions for making effective decisions. Instead, we chose to see how things looked post-death and mindfully and methodically work the problem — as a group (my siblings and I). I laugh as I write this post to you. So many people tell me “everybody grieves in a unique way”, yet, it also appears that everyone expects everyone to have their shit together the same way too.

A chaplain came to me to offer their condolences. I asked them, how much for two?Perhaps I am cynical, or maybe I’m just over it. What is the utility of a condolence? Usually, the condolence includes something like “I’m so sorry for your loss.” But then I think, “what did you do to be sorry?” Also, isn’t a bit presumptuous to believe I’ve lost something? Death gave me a great perspective and a deep sense of freedom. I know that at some point I must die. I must go through a fate like my father. And, while I wait for that time to come, I must maximize the time I have now. To continue to live the way my Dad would want. To continue to have his words and advices in my head. He said he would be more alive to me dead than alive, and it’s true. I can’t help seeing and hearing him and his advice in all things. I can’t thank the universe enough for that gift. I don’t see why someone should be sorry for me, and I don’t see the need for a condolence. I’ve been grieving for years. I’m actually in a pretty good mental health spot. I’ve got a perspective that’s informed by constant reflection, noticing without judging, and grounding myself in a philosophy of life that embraces death and the absurdity of fearing it. I anticipate my greatest struggle will be not be dealing with death, but dealing with how other people expect me to deal with death…

The nurse explained to me that mucous builds up in the lungs. And when that build up happens, people can sound like a coffee percolator when they are in the process of dying. In the past, they used to clear out the mucous, but the lungs would just produce more. Now, they give a medicine to make the music dry up on its own. When I arrived at the facility, in the afternoon, Dad was alone in bed. I sat next to him. His eyes opened up for me. He looked at me, we made eye contact. His eyes, appeared to have little-to-no life left in them. Time appeared to stand still as we fixed our gaze on each other. Then I noticed his left eye begin to veer off course, my Dad attempted to point at his eye as it veered. The eye veers because the muscles are not holding it in place. His eyes closed, and the percolator, known as “Death Rattles”, started. Accompanied with that noise was that B-below-middle-C moan. I stayed with Dad that night. My shift started at 10/10:30pm. I fell asleep at 5:30am for an hour or so. Between 10/10:30pm and 5:30am I stayed awake speaking to my Dad about our time together. I imagined we were camping again in the backyard. I talked about our times together — driving from Milwaukee to Miami and staying in motels that looked like drug dens. I recalled how he always reminded me that “God and me make a majority” and to never let a day go by where I don’t tell the people in my life that touch me that I love them. I spoke about how I felt he was the only one who truly got me, who knew how my soul worked. I recalled a letter he wrote to me in eighth grade. A few quotes are below:“God’s love will help you love others more. Only if you love others — your brother, your sister and your friends — will your life be fulfilled. This you have done well. From the help yo give your brother to daily phone calls to your Grandmother you have shared God’s love. Always remember how important this is. Never let a day go by without telling your Mother and those other people who touch your lives how much you love them….Always follow your heart. You know what is right. Always remember that, no matter what anyone says, God and you do make a majority . If you follow your heart you will never be ashamed of anything you may do in life.Your Mother and I wish that ou could forever be that little boy whose picture I have enclosed. We wish that every day would be your first at school. We wish that every night fro the rest of our lives we could kiss you goodnight and tell you how much we really love you. These wishes can never come true. You mhave matured and you will continue to grow. However, there is one wish that can come true. That wish is that every day we tell each other how much we love them — how much they turn the sunos in our lives — and carry out our words in action.”I played him a voicemail he left on my phone in November of 2011:“10:35, I’m going to bed, I just thought I wanted to tell you before I go to sleep how much I love you, and how much I’m proud of you… goodnight.”I cried. My eyes winced. My chest muscles jerked. I put my head next to his and expressed how happy I was that I could have just one more night with him to tell him how much I loved him. To tell him that I will do what I can to be a person that serves others. To not allow petty things to get in the way of love. That I am so thankful that I had just this experience, as stressful as it was, to tell him how much he meant to me… and how proud I am that he is my Dad. And most importantly, how proud I am that he finished what he started. When I woke up at 7:30am, his moaning became louder and the rattles kept going. I picked up my mother who wanted to say a few words to Dad. I brought her to Angels grace, I was gone not more than 45 minutes to an hour. When we walked in the noises stopped. My sister said to get the nurse. We cleared the room so that my mom could talk. The nurse walked in. With her stethoscope she listened.2 minutes of silence passed.“It’s been two minutes and I have not detected a heart beat or noises from the lungs. Your father has passed. I am so sorry.”Dedicated to my Dad (1946 - 10/9/2025), who I love so very much.

Dad arrived at AngelsGrace hospice unit by ambulance. I wasn’t there for the arrival. When I arrived, he was in a bed wearing the yellow shirt. His eyes mostly closed. He held a cross in his hand given by his sister. He began to moan. The moan changed pitches, but I place it at B below middle C. He would make a fist and waive it. The moan became louder. The nurse came in. The moan continued. She scanned his bladder, and found tons of urine. She installed a catheter. His moaning stopped. She gave him morphine.He slept.

Humans I interact with have social norms around death that annoy me. They say things like:I’m sorry for your loss.How are you? No, how are you really?How are you feeling? I want to offer my condolences? (I’ve been offered so many, I wonder if there’s an ““everything must go sale on condolences”)At least he’s not suffering…At least he’s at peace…At least…When my mother died….He’s finally with his parents…Here are my issues:Why be sorry for something you didn’t cause?

Dad sat in a chair wearing a yellow collared short sleeve shirt, green and navy plaid pajama bottoms, and navy and white plaid flannel-like buttoned down sweater. Both arms on arm rests of the EZ chair. Legs crossed. He wore grey socks, and tan slippers. Eyes closed. As he sat, two people came in — one white and one black — both kind faces, young. They wore navy-grey jackets bearing the Bell ambulance logo. Their coats, I’m not sure of the material, but they swooshed — A LOT. Lots of swooshing. Like a light coat you might wear for windy weather rubbing against itself. A nurse gave him morphine. He appeared to be in a daze. They got him up, he kind of mumbled. They helped him scuffle into the stretcher. Again, that swooshing sound of the coats. Once on the stretcher, they draped him with five straps to keep him secure. The straps also gave a sound — a similar sound to the jackets, except when pulled tight. When pulled, the straps sounded like cord being pulled taut before being knotted. The stretcher, under its own power, rose from the ground — it sounded like a wench. When it hit its appropriate height it locked into place. The two people, whose faces I shall never forget, cleared the path and took Dad out.

There is always more capacity for more critical thinking. Open Culture presents Carl Sagan’s boloney detection kit — how to detect pseudoscience — and the video they link is quite good. link.From the article:[From Carl Sagan] “Like all tools, the baloney detection kit can be misused, applied out of context, or even employed as a rote alternative to thinking… But applied judiciously, it can make all the difference in the world — not least in evaluating our own arguments before we present them to others… this kit is not some perfect solution to the world’s problems, but as it’s been utilized over the last few centuries… it has enabled us to create technological innovations and useful explanatory models of our world more quickly and effectively than ever before.” The walls of baloney may always be closing in on humanity, but if you follow Sagan’s advice, you can at least give yourself some breathing room.

I’m sensitive to sounds people make and the moments they make them. When my sister gave birth to my nephew, I recorded his heart beat from the monitor. When I got an ultra sound on my arteries, I recorded the sound and asked about it. When I’m in the woods, I pay attention to the wind. I’m especially sensitive to the sounds my Dad makes. I’m sensitive to his voice — its timbre, its frequency, phonation, all of it. And the other day I heard the sound of Dad receiving morphine. He was lying back in bed. The certified nursing assistant (CNA) came in with what appeared to be a straw, a very thin white straw that contained morphine. Along with the straw came a Q-tip like wipe which helped prevent any burning around the mouth from the morphine. The CNA gradually woke him up with a “Mr. Brady, I need to give you something.” His eyes looked up. She looked down at him and wiped his mouth. Then she put the tube in. It sounded like a low frequency gurgle. Like saying “ahh” for a throat examination but imagine there’s phlegm in your throat. It was short. It was followed by an almost barely audible “hum”. This will be the first of many doses of morphines Dad will receive.