#1775 In The Proximity Of Death - Harps

from people. But having said that, it's it's something that impacts all of us, and eventually it's where we all end up, right, And I don't. I don't. This is funny, But I don't really have a major plan or intention like with a lot of my a lot of my messages, I have a clear plan, you know, what I want to get out of this and what I want to you want to leave you with, and what I want, you know, like, what's the point. I've got an idea of what the point is, but I'm not actually sure.

But what I'm sure of is and I could be wrong, by the way, this is just what I think. But I'm reasonably sure that someone needs to hear what I'm about to share, and statistically that's very likely because we have thousands of listeners a day. But I think maybe for a person or quite a few people, perhaps this might be not because it's coming from me, and not

because I'm a fucking genius. We know I'm not, but just because I think the ideas and thoughts and messages might resonate with some of you, or maybe even a lot of you. I'm not sure. So this is one that I couldn't just freestyle. I thought, I can't just riff on on death and dying for twenty minutes or thirty minutes or forty minutes. And so I've written a lot of stuff. I've spent the last hour or two just writing and thinking, and so some of what I'm about to share with you is written by me. I

don't normally. I don't normally write things. I don't normally read things per se. I might have some dot points that are written down, but as you know, like right now, of the last minute or two or three, I've been freestyling. As I do. Mostly I sit down and if I think, for example, I'm going to talk about goal setting. I'll have ten dot points and off I go. If I'm going to talk about mental and emotional health, same thing, eight or ten dot points and off I go. And

I talk for bloody way too long. But today is going to be a combination of stories, real stories, and freestyling and some stuff that I've written. The last year for me has been an interesting time in many ways, but specific to this, a lot of people, quite a few people that I care about, have been very sick,

are still very sick, and some have passed away. And there's something profoundly humbling about standing at the edge of life with somebody that you love, you know, like in the proximity of death, It's like the air feels heavier, like time bends and stretches and contracts, and the bullshit, the trivialities of the world seem to melt away and leave behind only truly what matters. I've sat with quite a few people in my life who are dying close to death, some of them some of them hours away

from death. And it's for me it's been in those moments that I'm off at a window into almost like some way more profound, deeper truth about existence and the human condition that I can't normally access or I don't pert maybe I can, but I just don't because I'm so caught up in bullshit, a truth that I often overlook because I'm just way too busy and distracted and full of whatever, you know, to see what is and maybe to pull back that curtain and to be in the moment and to be in that level of love

and connection with somebody, because I'm just too busy doing stuff and doing life and ticking boxes and and not that those things are bad, you know. And I don't think we need to walk around with this morbid kind of awareness of death and dying, but rather I just think every now and then, you know, for me, I

think this is a one in two thousand conversations. So this is not going to be a reoccurring theme, But it's I find the way that people are psychologically and emotionally and personally and interpersonally, the way that people are around the proximity of death and dying, whether it is the person themselves that are sick and dying or it's somebody that we care about, and to see the interpersonal dynamics between two people change drastically because all of a sudden,

things are different, and they're not temporarily different, they're fucking different. All of a sudden, my friends got cancer, or all of a sudden, my friends in hospital on life support, or all of a sudden as is as was the case for me about five years ago, my friend dropped dead in front of me on the gym floor. And and I know that story has been told a few times here, and it turned out great for those of

you who don't know the story. In my training partner had a cardiac arrest in the gym on a Friday night at five minutes past five on a Friday night, and he was dead until twenty two minutes past five. He was literally dead, not breathing, no heartbeat, no respiration, nothing,

for seventeen minutes. And it turned out well. And it was lucky that I was there, and it was lucky that the ambulance got there within eleven minutes, and a whole lot of things happened, but for me that moment where so now I'm standing over the top of my friend who's dead for the last five or ten seconds, just took his last breath, exhaled. I had to turn him over. He was face down on the floor in

the gym. I had to, you know, assess what I needed to do and all of that and turn him over and start CPR and all of that, which I did. And this ain't at all about me. This is in terms of what I did. It's about for me. It's about the perspective and the I can't even really find the right words, but the awareness and the clarity and the significance of that moment and in that moment where there was a chance that I might be able to

help him. It is so interesting to have that level of focus and that type of mindset where not that I was thinking about this consciously, but when nothing matters at all except life, nothing in that moment, and trying to give this person back a life, trying to get that body breathing, trying to get that heart beating. And it's funny how seventeen minutes, I don't know how long

it felt. I was going to say seventeen hours. It felt like seventeen fucking years, to be honest, And it all turned out well, and the ambos, who were fucking amazing, got there and they brought him back to life. And you know, I'm forever grateful, and we're still training and he's alive and thriving and well, and he's now got a pacemaker. But to be in that moment where someone that you love is literally in your arms, like dying in your arms, and then dead and then collapses to

the floor, that for me changed me forever. That for me made me. And I'm not saying I have this new profound, spiritual exist it's none of that. I'm still a fuck wed. I still do dumb shit. But it gave me a level of gratitude for life that I did not have the same level of anyway. It's yeah, it's profound, and I don't wish that on any of you.

But it always dawns on me that sometimes, sometimes for some of us, something horrible or terrible or transformative in a bad way has to happen for us to all of a sudden be aware of and have gratitude for the thing that we had yesterday that we didn't appreciate or didn't value. And all we want today in the middle of the horrible thing that's happened, is we want yesterday back. We want yesterday's version of reality back, the

one that we weren't grateful for. And so it's this interesting thing of trying to find gratitude when there hasn't been some kind of profound negative thing that gives us a level of perspective, Trying to find perspective, trying to find clarity without having to go through the catastrophe. I guess that's one of the challenges. I guess when someone we love is dying, it's like our usual filters, the one that protect us from all the uncomfortable truths and

realities of mortality and vulnerability. You know, that's all stripped away in their absence, and we find ourselves face to face with the rawness of the human experience, the fragility of the human body, the resilience of the spirit, and the profound interconnectedness of love and loss and joy and pain. And then you know, being being around someone or being near someone who is nearing the end of their life. You know, somebody a family member or friend us who

you love, who's sick. This like being in that moment, being in that reality with them invites or I think maybe creates, invites, creates a kind of awareness that's difficult to articulate, but it's unmistakable to feel like when you when you're in that, which is why I'm stumbling and bumbling a bit. It's you'll know it, you'll feel it,

you're like, oh oh. It's as if time itself shifts from a linear march to something that's kind of circular and sacred almost still, Like for me being around people who are nearing the end of their physical journey, it bends time. Five minutes feels like five hours. Of course, time is a constant, but when we inject that constant of time with extreme emotion, then rather than being something that's linear and constant, time becomes a subjective experience where

those five minutes feel like five hours. The things we take for granted, you know, a shared glance, the sound of someone's breath, the proximity of their arm or hand, or you know, a kiss or a conversation, an interaction like something that we don't even notice, Like these become treasures that we cling to with reverence. It's like the ordinary transforms in that moment into the extraordinary. The things

we normally wouldn't notice are amazingly and instantly profound. The meaningless and forgettable become the profound and memorable, and minutes and moments become gifts, stored in our minds and our hearts forever. I remember my first trainer. His name was Maddie and he's obviously I say it was because he's passed away. He passed away in his early twenties and he was working with me. He was, when I say, my first trainer, the first trainer that worked for me.

So he was one of the first personal trainers in Australia after me. He was amazing and he was a gifted teacher and coach and just people always say this, but truly an amazing human. And he had an accident and he ended up in his early twenties, fit, strong, healthy in hospital on life support. And back in the day, I don't know if they still call it, but back in the day, they would call it the person with his kind of traumatic brain injury brain dead. And I was him and I were close. Him and I were

like brothers. I was like his big brother. And we had breakfast together, and we had lunch together, and we worked out together, and we worked together all day and I mentored him and coached him and loved him. And then, you know, seemingly, a moment later, I was sitting in a hospital, sitting in a chair beside his bed, holding his hand, and looked at him in the bed, and he looked perfect like like there was no like he

looked just he looked just like Maddie asleep. And because he was a young bloke, I'd seen him asleep a lot. He'd sleep on the gym floor, he'd sleep in the staff room. He could sleep at the drop of it. And it was just like I was seeing him sleep again, but his body was there, but he wasn't there. And you know, in that moment, I was thinking about what I would say to him, what I wish he could hear, How I wished it was yesterday. I wished it was

the day before. I wish that I could have twenty four hours again, or twenty four minutes, or even twenty four seconds. What I would say to him. You know, he knew that I loved him, but I never told him that. And I don't know why I didn't tell him. Maybe I don't know, Maybe because I was a fucking

dumb al for male, or it didn't come up. You know, it's amazing in that moment when and I was sitting there holding his hand or maybe his forearm, and I remember just like it being surreal, feeling like I know this is real, like logically, like intellectually I understand what has happened, but I'm looking at him and it just seemed unreal. It seemed surreal. It was true, but it just it. I couldn't really get my head around it.

I think the proximity to death has the power to reorder our priorities in an instant, you know, like arguments and grudges and regrets dissolve in the face of life's finite nature, and what often rises in their place is this clarity, you know that I've spoken about before, this understanding that love, like in its purest, most unguarded form, is the only thing that endures. In those sacred moments, we stop worrying about being right or wrong, or about

success or failure, and instead we're just there. We're just present on simply being with someone and being there for someone, like not thinking, not not doing anything, just connecting, just connecting, just sharing energy. And you know, there's obviously there's an undeniable pain in this experience watching someone we love slip away as an ache. It's a it's a it's a kind of pain that is indescribable. I've had lots of physical pain, but I've never had I've never had that

kind of pain. But you know that there's also, I don't know, I think, weirdly, there's a beauty. There's a kind of a bittersweet beauty that comes from knowing that I'm witnessing somebody transition from this life to the next. And maybe that's because I'm a little bit spiritual and weird. I'm not sure. I don't know who you are or where you're at with all of that, but and I guess it's like an intimate reminder that life, in all

its complexity and vastness and smallness is. It's simultaneously enduring but fleeting. You know, it's precious. The proximity of death has a way of breaking our hearts wide open, and not just in grief, but also ingratitude for that love, that love that we have and that that love that we got from that person. But many of us, I guess these moments off for an opportunity to connect on

a deeper level than ever before. You know, conversations that once seemed too difficult or too vulnerable become necessary and urgent and words like I forgive you, or I'm sorry or I love you flow freely, like ego and selfishness and awkwardness make way for a level of connection and intimacy that we rarely read. I mentioned recently on one show about my second mom, and I don't want to bore everyone, but my second mom was my mum's best friend, Ray, my second mom growing up, so I grew up basically

my family and Ray's family, husband's gil. They have four daughters, shout out to the girls. And the girls were almost basically my sisters, and I was basically their brother they had They had no brother, just four girls. I had no sisters. I had no siblings at all. And so in a way we kind of became operationally each other's siblings. And so I had this family of four girls and this, you know, this alternate mom and dad that I loved very much. And Ray passed away. Oh gee, where are

we now? A couple of weeks ago now, maybe maybe three weeks ago now. And on Christmas Day we always spend Christmas days together, the families every Christmas. And on Christmas Day, I went into I left, we all had lunch together, and I left there and I went into the hospital to be with her, and she knew that she was dying, and she knew that she was on

the home straight. I knew that she knew that. And it was profound, you know, it was It's interesting to sit with someone for an hour when you know that's the last time you will ever talk to this person that you love, Like what do you say? Like what matters? And I don't remember thinking this consciously, but I'm sure at some stage, you know, I just I didn't go in with a plan other than see her, be with her, talk to her. She passed away not too many days

after that. But but what was what was beautiful was that she was aware and awake. We could talk. We had a good talk, and it's just, you know, things come well they did for me. Screamingly into perspective about not talking about things that don't matter, didn't mean we needed to sit there and have a profound conversation for an hour. We spoke about different things, and she laughed

and I laughed, and she smiled and I smiled. But you know, there was, of course, there was an underlying awareness and sadness on my part, of course, that this would be our last conversation. And I've said this once before, but what was amazing was that in that moment where

we both knew what was happening. Ray that's her name, my second mum, she was more concerned about me being okay than the pain she was in that where she was at on her journey, that what was happening with her to her, she wasn't in that moment, she wasn't concerned about that. We didn't talk about that. Really there was only there was just me and her, like there

was just for me anyway. I can only speak for me, but profound the gratitude, profound connection and love and sitting there like holding hands, holding my arm, me holding her arm, and I shared this once before, but I'll share it again. And she told me that she loved me, which she told me pretty much every time I saw her, and being the son in inverted commas, I kind of flippantly said, yeah, I know, you know, I know. Of course, of course I did that. Of course I of course I kind

of fobbed it off with my own whateverness. And then she squeezed my arm and then made me look her in the eyes, and then she told me again and said you know, don't you. And I knew why she did that. I knew why she did that because she she wanted me to know that. She wanted me to know that, you know, when she was gone, which was going to be soon, that that I could continue on

knowing that. And it's funny because you know, all of these, all of these moments and all of these like these moments, these profound moments that we can have where of course, in the day to day nous of our human experience, of course we get caught up in stuff. Of course, we've got to pay bills, and of course we've got to wait at the traffic lights, and of course we've got to get out of bed, and of course we've got to feed out you know, of course, of course,

and none of those things are bad things. And it doesn't mean that we're not deep or profound or spiritual or ungrateful, because the constancy of being human and the requirements are ticking all the being human boxes and going to work and looking after kids and navigating the messiness of life. Of course, that's never going away. But god,

it's amazing to hit the pause button. It's amazing to just try to extricate yourself mentally and emotion only and behaviorally from all the stuff that doesn't matter so much sometimes and to step into that space of awareness, you know, And I guess it can be in these moments and silences where like there's new meaning, Like the silences, you know, me sitting there sometimes in silence with Ray, it's like it takes on a new meaning, or it took on

a new meaning. It was no longer empty, but full and kind of overflowing with the unspoken understanding, you know. And sometimes like words, words aren't enough, Like words don't do it, words don't matter. She didn't need to say a lot. She said a few things that were profound.

But in some ways, I think spending time with someone that you love who is nearing the end of their journey, you know, it makes us think about stuff about our own mortality, about the end of our own life, and not in a morbid way or a sad way, but you know, for me, it makes me think about things that I might otherwise avoid. What does it mean to live a good life? What am I going to leave behind? What am I going to do while I'm here? How will I be remembered? Not from an ego point of view,

but just how will I be remembered? Like these reflections can be uncomfortable, but maybe they're helpful. Maybe they're transformative. Maybe they remind you and me to live more intentionally, maybe to love more deeply, maybe to be more present, maybe to be more grateful with this twenty four hour period that you and I have this day. Like I'm recording this on the twenty third of January twenty twenty five. It's a Thursday. I'm never going to have this Thursday ever. Again.

I've had lots of Thursdays, but I've never had this one. I've had a bunch of January twenty threes, sixty one of them, but I've never had this one. And sometimes I think, like what for me? What actually matters? Like I'm always you know, I'm always talking about what are my values? Does my life reflect those values? Do the things that I purport to hold or that I say

I hold in the highest regard? Is that true? Like when I'm not on a podcast, when I'm not in front of an audience, when no one's looking, when no one's paying attention? Am I am I the real deal? Am I full of shit? Am I authentic? I? Think you probably know I'm serious about all of this. I actually think this. This is not a monologue for a show.

This is actually how I feel. I think, you know, maybe for those of you who are spiritual, whatever that means, the proximity of death can feel like a almost like a crossing over, like a crossing of a threshold, some kind of I think of it as like almost like a metaphoric door that I walk through from the known into the unknown. Some describe a sense of the sacred, as though they're standing in a space where the veil between the worlds is thinned, or maybe where a curtain

gets pulled back. And of course some people will find comfort in rituals and prayers, in the belief that there's something beyond the physical, a continuation, a reunion, a heaven, a peace that passes all understanding. So the Bible tells us, I don't know. I used to think I knew. I thought I absolutely knew. But can I believe with not knowing? Well, of course, because belief is about belief. Belief is about having faith in something that you don't necessarily know to

be true. And even for those who don't you know, hold such beliefs or have that faith. I think there's often a sense of wonder and mystery about dying, about the process of dying, like an awareness and a recognition that it's both ending and ending in a beginning. I think to be with someone that we love as they near the end of their life as one of the most difficult things will ever do, but maybe one of

the most amazing and beautiful and meaningful and profound. Like it requires us to be brave and loving and compassionate and aware, to stay present even when it hurts, and to offer our love without expectation or reservation, like there's no agenda, there's no strategy, there's just love. It teaches us in the clearest and most powerful way that the essence of life ain't found in what we achieve or get, or own or acquire, but in the connections that we

create and the love that we share with people. I feel like the proximity of death ultimately kind of reminds us of what it means to be fully human. Strips away all the bullshit, all the pretense, all the unimportant stuff,

and just leaves the truth. And it's in that truth that we find not just lost, but also like profound beauty and being alive and joy, and maybe we find the courage to face our own mortality, the wisdom to cherish the time we have, and the grace to honor the lives of those that we love and those that we lose, you know, both in their presence right here, right now and then their absence. At sixty one, I'm way closer to the finish line than I am the start.

And of course it's my intention to live a much longer life, and to learn more stuff and do more stuff, help people, serve people, and lift more heavy things, and have more laughs, and ride more motorbikes, and you know, do all the things. But the truth is, I don't know. I don't know how long I'll live. I don't know how long I'll be there. I don't know what the future holds. The truth is, I'm not in control of all the variables in the lifespan equation, a lot of them,

but not all of them. And having had lots of people die that I love, I'm aware of the gift that is one day. I'm aware of the fragility of life and also the gift of life, the gift that is love, that is kindness, that is connection. And while I'm not looking forward to dying, neither am I scared of it and friends and listeners. I'm not exactly sure why I felt compelled to do this episode today, but as I said at the start, I feel like someone or someone's one of you, some of you, a few

of you, a lot of you. I'm not sure, but I feel like someone needs to hear it. And so now I've done it. Love me,