Being already there, I get sucked in and listen to the other episodes in the series. No surprise that most of the participants are women (as is the social worker). Aren’t women always more willing than men to talk about their feelings? Why wouldn’t they be more willing to talk about being ill and what they’re going through as they face death. Besides, most of those interviewed are old, and everyone knows how laconic old men tend to be—especially if at some time in their lives they’ve been to war. Also, it seems to me that, when asked to do something for someone else, women, even if not greatly enthused, are more likely than men to oblige. (There appears to be some controversy about studies, of which there are no few, that involve asking the dying for interviews or to fill out surveys or questionnaires and so on. Is it ethical to take up the time of those to whom so little time remains, ask some.)

What I hear, listening to the podcast, is an extraordinary amount of accord. Whether or not there is acceptance, there is also fear. Fear of pain. Fear of the dark. Even those who do “go gentle” don’t seem entirely sure about the “good” part. (It seems the one person with whom the poet could not share his poem was the very one who had inspired it, and who is addressed in it, the reason being that Dylan Thomas’s father hadn’t been told that he was dying.) Far more anxiety than zen, I hear. Every single one of those interviewed has watched someone die before them. Bucket lists and last wishes are modest. One more Christmas. One more spring. (“I’m hoping for a last vacation with the grandkids” . . . “to make my son’s law school graduation” . . . “to finish the renovations on the house.”) Several find themselves quite naturally dwelling on the past. (“Mother’s face keeps coming back.” “The anger I felt all these years about my divorce I don’t feel anymore.”) Sadness and worry for those left behind, for whom one’s death is predicted to be harder than for oneself. (“If only my kids weren’t so young.” “I’m not sure my husband even knows where the kitchen is, he’s gonna starve to death.” And what about the cats?)

An absence of self-pity, with the exception of the mother of the young kids. She did everything “right,” this woman assures us. She never hurt anyone, she played by all the rules. She was a good person. Why her why her why her.

An absence of humor, with the exception of one very raspy-voiced fifty-year-old man who obsesses about his epitaph. He’s heard a lot of good ones, he says, his favorite being “See you soon.” Can I use one that’s already been used before? he asks. Or would that be plagiarism?

As if he might get sued for that.