A Better Life and Farewell | Grandma Kouzi

Speaking of eggs, you’ll always have your so-called “experts” chiming in with lectures, insisting that while eggs are fine, you shouldn’t overindulge—certainly no more than two a day. What about a meat-free food lover accustomed to two per sitting? If I can’t out-argue the gurus, I’ll simply swap chicken eggs for duck eggs at lunch. I have plenty of those too.

Those so-called dietary guidelines and standards are geared towards sedentary folks living on refined carbohydrates and excessive sugar and fat. As a farmer in Evil Man Valley, I get plenty of physical exertion through daily work, rely on wholesome ingredients, and cook simply with minimal oil and salt. I can quite safely eat what I like, however I like.

To borrow a line from Kant: “Freedom is the right to refuse to do what you do not wish to do.” For me, this means rejecting other people’s rules. By refusing to let others’ standards dictate your own, you not only secure joy, contentment, and bright days ahead, but good health too.

I’m not just talking out of my hat; the facts speak for themselves. At my most recent health screening, the centre had added a whole bank of consultation rooms staffed by retired, rehired veteran practitioners of traditional Chinese medicine. The moment I went to collect my results, the receptionist ushered me straight in—my age bracket is, apparently, prime target demographic. Even if you have no organic disease, you’re bound to be diagnosed with neurasthenia, qi and blood deficiency, spleen and stomach disharmony, or some endocrine imbalance. Between imported high-tech gadgets, exclusively compounded herbal formulas, and the latest miracle supplements, there’s always something to sell, and not a soul leaves empty-handed. That day, I was the exception. After running through the traditional diagnostic routine, the “expert” tapped my health report and practically showed me the door: “You eat well, sleep soundly, pass stool regularly, and still have the energy to get about. What exactly are you causing a scene for?”

I did nothing wrong! I was practically shoved in against my will. I give my word to high cholesterol itself that I wasn’t trying to cause any trouble.

II. So-called “destiny” is merely the instinct to cling to life and fear death

As for death, that was straightforward: I signed a body donation form with the Red Cross. I simply put my name to it; everything else is not my concern.

Life, however, proved a little more complicated. I paid the entry fee to sign up for my first half marathon. The hassle wasn’t the registration itself, but the fact that from that day on, I would have to actually learn how to run.

What made matters worse was that my health was in a dire state at the time: I was suffering from severe depression, my immune system had collapsed, and a low-grade fever and cough following a cold had dragged on for over two months.

Life and death are weighty matters. Rock bottom, physically and mentally, I seriously wrestled with the question of whether to fight on or give up. These days I deeply admire Cai Lei; back then, I looked up to Stephen Hawking. I knew I didn’t possess their strength. Had illness clamped a vice around my throat, I would have surrendered and chosen the easier way out.

After every conventional treatment failed, I turned down all medical advice, both Eastern and Western. I brewed my own herbal blends to drink as tea, and between bouts of coughing and gasping, I laced up and ran.

Having decided to stop trusting doctors and try to heal myself, running became my final gamble. If it didn’t work, I had decided I would end it all.

Back then, it wasn’t death I feared, but life—specifically, the thought of existing in a state worse than death.

I had never undertaken any structured exercise before turning fifty. But from that birthday onwards, I began to run. I had learned that trusting myself was far wiser than relying on anyone else.

Three months later, I finished my first half marathon. I became hooked, and have kept it up for the past decade.

What I love isn’t running itself, but the act of living fully and well.

III. The Fear of Death

In truth, my fiftieth birthday brought another complication. I had hoped to use my decision to donate my body to open a conversation with my parents about mortality, but it never came to pass. That was my final attempt. When it comes to talking about life and death, they steer clear, and I no longer push the matter.

We can avoid the conversation about life and death, but we cannot avoid life and death itself.

My father passed away at ninety-three, my mother at eighty-eight; both enjoyed long lives. For a decade, my siblings and I took turns providing round-the-clock care. Before they were admitted to the ICU, they could still walk unaided, feed themselves, and had developed no pressure sores. Without the ICU, one might call it a peaceful, natural passing. But life rarely offers “ifs.” My parents’ final days were spent in intensive care—four days for my father, forty-four for my mother.

When my father was lifted onto the ambulance stretcher, he was already unresponsive, yet his hands were clenched tightly around the waistband of his trousers, which were only drawn up halfway.

At the ICU entrance, we were required to sign a standard consent form outlining that CPR could result in fractured ribs, among other risks. Lacking courage, I stepped aside and let my eldest sister take the pen.

The doctor initially declared my father brain dead and asked us to go through the paperwork. Shortly after, while we were still searching for identification documents, we were told that CPR had restored his heartbeat, leaving him in a vegetative state.

The ICU is a closed ward, and during the pandemic all visits were banned, leaving us to wait for the doctors’ calls. I had given my mobile number during admission, and I received a routine update on his treatment every early morning. At 1 a.m. on the fourth night, I was informed that the enemas for his bowel obstruction had done nothing, that he had just experienced cardiac arrest, and that I should discuss with the family whether to continue resuscitation efforts if it happened again.

I told them there was no need to discuss it; let us let him go. I could not erase the image of my father’s hands clutching his trousers. Though his consciousness was ebbing away, his final sense of dignity could not be stripped from him. I feared the warning that “CPR may cause fractured ribs.” I prayed that brain death meant he would feel no pain, and that he would not be trapped by it.

My mother’s stay in the ICU lasted much longer—forty-four days. She was covered in tubes: a ventilator for breathing, a nasogastric tube for food and water, a catheter for urination, plus lines for monitoring blood sugar, blood pressure, and heart rate. Eight different medications were administered simultaneously—antibiotics, antifungals, antipyretics, vasopressors, sedatives, antidiabetics, cardiac stimulants, diuretics… A person kept alive by advanced life support systems resembles nothing so much as the human batteries from The Matrix.

In that system, being unclothed is the norm. Every garment would interfere with medical procedures; clothes designed to provide warmth and cover our modesty are simply not made for the ICU.

I found myself almost grateful for my father’s brain death. When my mother first entered the ICU, she was still conscious. She could feel pain, she could feel shame. Her mouth was occupied by a tube that robbed her of speech, and her body was held rigid by equipment that prevented any response.

That manner of dying terrified me to the core. If you look through the archives of Foodthink, you will notice that my last post was published nearly half a year ago. It is the first time I have gone this long without writing.

It does not stop me from working or tending the fields. It does not keep me from running or swimming. Yet I cannot gather my thoughts, think clearly, or express myself. I have turned over the events leading up to my parents’ passing again and again, on paper and on screen, trying countless times to draft a WeChat post, but I simply could not bring myself to finish it.

IV. Rejecting a “Bad Death”

We had previously signed a directive refusing ICU admission and overtreatment, making it clear that our sole aim was to relieve her suffering. The following noon, a feeding tube was inserted into her nose to address her inability to eat independently. This is standard hospital practice, and as we didn’t view it as a traumatic intervention, we did not object.

It was only after the first tube was placed that I realised how the medical system works: external life support operates as a continuum. Once you accept the first intervention, the rest inevitably follows.

To prevent her from pulling it out, they began administering sedatives – essentially inducing an artificial coma. In a comatose state, unable to void naturally, she required a urinary catheter. My mother had already been on continuous oxygen due to low saturation levels, but the nasal cannula proved insufficient once she was sedated, necessitating an endotracheal tube. An endotracheal tube, in turn, requires an ICU bed… Each step was justified as necessary and sufficient to treat illness and save a life. And so, my elderly mother was denied the chance to pass away peacefully in the company of her family, and was instead sent to the ICU to meet an undignified end.

Before the tubes were inserted, my mother’s bowel and bladder functions were normal and largely under her control. On the night before the feeding tube was placed, she passed stool three times in bed. Each episode was copious, yet clearly not diarrhoea. She was still aware during the first two, but showed almost no response during the third. From that point on, she rarely surfaced from her unconsciousness.

This was the body’s way of saying goodbye. As death approaches, ceasing to eat and allowing the body to empty itself are fundamental biological instincts. In the final hours, when food and drink stop, ketones build up in the blood, bringing a sense of peace. I have read numerous accounts of near-death experiences, and they consistently describe dying not as painful, but as profoundly comforting – a gentle ascent towards the light. This sensation ought to be the final gift a person receives on their life’s journey.

Life and death operate by their own inherent logic, whereas hospitals operate by the logic of preservation. The advanced life-support systems in the ICU interrupted that natural process, effectively confiscating that final gift.

The violent clash between medical machinery and the natural order interrupts a peaceful passing, stripping away dignity and autonomy. That is what it means to meet an undignified end. I fear this kind of death. I am terrified of it.

I want my own passing to be as untroubled as possible. Here is exactly what I intend to do: I will sign a living will, explicitly stating that I refuse cardiopulmonary resuscitation, mechanical ventilation, artificial feeding, and admission to an ICU.

While my mind is still clear and I retain the capacity to choose, I must secure the right to die naturally. We are all mortal. The final freedom we possess in this life is the power to reject the manner of death we do not desire, and to refuse an undignified end.

After my mother passed away, I felt scattered and listless for a long time. My computer was cluttered with fragments of thought, yet I could never shape them into anything clear or coherent. It wasn’t until a while back, when Villain Valley marked its fourth anniversary, that I set myself a hard rule: I had to write an anniversary piece within a strict timeframe, forcing myself to step out of the fog.

While writing, I accidentally deleted some passages about my parents. I didn’t try to recover them. I took it as a silent sign from the universe—a nudge to let go.

I signed an advance directive to secure a “good death.” Until that day arrives, every single day I will strive to earn a “good life.”

I have no wish to endure the kind of immense suffering endured by Cai Lei or Stephen Hawking in pursuit of life’s meaning. Still, I will work hard for a life that is both meaningful and enjoyable. Moments of joy, happiness, and clear skies—I deserve them.

A creature like me, ever loath to let go of life, harbours specific, mundane attachments to the world here and now—for instance, a simple love of eating. Drilled since childhood not to be a “gluttonous idler,” my aim now that I can provide for myself is simply more fruit and whole grains, shifting entirely from merely “getting by” to truly “eating well.”

Villain Valley has seen a few small improvements lately, aimed at beautifying the surroundings and lifting our spirits. We’ve created waterside flower borders, and taken up small crafts, like this bookshelf. Boiled long beans are healthy and tasty, but shelling them takes a toll on the hands. The bookshelf sets my hands free, letting me read and shell beans simultaneously. It’s practical, pleasant to look at, and makes the whole process a joy.

I’ve also brought in some fitness equipment and started learning strength training. I’m not chasing an unnatural physique; the goal is simply to preserve muscle mass and slow its decline. To remain autonomous in our own bodies, we need muscle. There’s no better way to elevate the quality of life without it.

A decade ago, to dissuade me from running marathons, my father searched online for “sudden death after marathon” and told me about an 84-year-old American grandmother who finished a marathon in the morning and was dead by the afternoon.

My mother, who couldn’t use the internet, eagerly chimed in: “Just don’t run marathons and you’ll be fine.”

I was absolutely thrilled to hear that. A leisurely run in the morning, followed by a swift and tidy exit in the afternoon—that’s the kind of good fortune earned over several lifetimes.

Dying like that marathon grandma became my life’s ideal. I know full well that relying on others is no match for relying on oneself, yet here I am—a runner, a swimmer, someone who farms in sunshine and reads in the rain, happily fond of good food and idle living—still unable to help myself from pleading with Buddha, Jesus, Allah, the Jade Emperor, Grandma Tai Shan, and every deity under heaven. I pray that the cultivation of this life will grant me the ability to create joyful, happy, sunlit moments, and to enjoy a farewell that is both natural and swift.

Foodthink Author

Kouzi

A farmer and long-distance walker, village brewer. Full-time food enthusiast, part-time farmer, amateur writer.

 

 

 

Unless otherwise stated, all images are courtesy of the author.

Editor: Xiaodan