What the End of the Universe Can Teach Us About Dying
As we learn more about the death of the universe, we’ve grown more and more comfortable talking about it. So why is it so hard to talk about our own death?
Summer evenings spent looking at the magical night sky remind us of the beauty of the universe. The vastness of space seems to go on forever and remain unchanging, perfect.
But the universe is changing — and will someday cease to be as we know it. As a cosmologist my job is to imagine, dream and calculate the end of the universe — to understand the mathematical equations governing its death.
We currently believe that the universe is expanding — and that as it expands, the mysterious anti-gravity force or “dark energy” will be the dominant component of energy in the universe, stretching space further and further apart.
We didn’t always believe that the universe was expanding, though. Einstein first proposed the “cosmological constant” in 1917, which paradoxically called for a static universe. Edwin Hubble and Vesto Slipher would later measure the distances and velocities of galaxies, and show in 1929 that all galaxies outside of our Local Group were moving away from each other, implying an expanding universe.
Then, there were hints in the 1980s that we lived in a universe with only a small amount of “regular matter,” and the apparent accelerated expansion of the universe was confirmed through observations in the 1990s, most notably in 1997 by two groups looking at Type Ia supernovae — distant exploding stars that outshine their host galaxies.
As the universe expands it will cool, and once dying stars use up all the hydrogen in the universe, it will be emptied of “normal” matter like atoms and radiation. The energy of the universe will be dominated by this dark energy — so the expansion of the universe will continue to accelerate, with the distance between objects getting further and further apart. The universe, then, will end not with a bang, but an exquisite arabesque, a cold pristine place devoid of all the things we know and love.
One of the best things about this ending? As a human being, my brain can understand it. I play this death in my head daily, considering its details lovingly. Embracing it means I can learn about it, tell others about it — and it fills me with wonder at the life of the universe both past, present and future.
The same beautiful trajectory of birth, change and then death is inherent in our lives. So why is death at the human level so much harder to contemplate?
We need to talk about dying. But because of some strange sense of respect, I’ve often kept from asking those around me questions about their relationship to death and dying. It seems to be a right we give away through shame or fear, and I’ve come to realize I’ve been robbing myself of some of the most important conversations I can have with my loved ones.
When my grandfather died of cancer, I was fortunate to have time to tell him all the things I wanted to, even though I had to watch him suffer. My father, on the other hand, died suddenly, and while I didn’t witness his suffering, I also didn’t get to talk to him about the end of his life and what he might have wanted. There was no “final conversation.” I like to think that the memorial we had for him with family and some of his oldest friends would’ve made him smile — but if we had been able to talk about it, I would have known for sure.
What would happen if we all had discussions with those we love about how we might die, and look after each other when the time comes?
One of the most moving talks at TED2015 was by BJ Miller, a palliative care doctor working in San Francisco as director of the Zen Hospice Project. Miller spoke of how our treatment and understanding of death need a redesign focused on the patient, not the disease. The practices used at the Zen Hospice Project (e.g., baking cookies even though many of the patients eat very little food; celebrating the life of the patient who died by saying a few words and sprinkling roses on the body) celebrate the life and wishes of its residents, rather than focusing on death as what defines them.
I don’t know how I will die. I hope it is without too much pain. But I’m not afraid of dying. Just for the record: I don’t want to be buried or cremated. I would like to have the most environmentally friendly disposal of my body possible. (There are many awesome ideas on this, like the Mushroom Death Suit created by TED Fellow Jae Rhim Lee, which uses a new strain of fungus — the Infinity Mushroom — to turn corpses into clean compost.) I plan to make sure there are adequate funds available to cover any costs of my death and internment, and I’m writing a will.
I don’t want a funeral, and if my friends and family choose to have some sort of memorial service for me, I don’t want anything resembling a coffin, grave or body to be anywhere near it. They have always made me very sad. Instead, I’d like the silliest photos of me around. I’d be delighted with any celebration that might bring joy and happiness to those who I got to share memories with. I’d like to think that there will be some rock music played, and some silly dance music so that people can have a good time. Maybe someone can share a lot of inappropriate jokes.
Most importantly, I don’t want my life to be prolonged artificially if my chances of living a participatory life are not good. I know these are tough decisions to make even for medical professionals, but I trust that they will take the best course of action bearing in mind my integrated future health.
These are thoughts about the future that I’m allowed to have now, because I’m alive. Communicating them to others feels like a statement of ownership. It’s empowering to think about my death as a part of my life.
Some people find the end of the universe frightening to imagine. But to me, it seems a beautiful, symmetrical end — the “heat death of the universe” is the perfectly balanced counterpart to the universe’s hot fiery beginning. Likewise, just as we started life in a hot, confused state with lots of excitement, we leave it a little bit colder than when we joined it. Life appears to be that long stretch between opening your eyes and closing them again, to sleep and to dream.
The TED Fellows program hand-picks young innovators from around the world to raise international awareness of their work and maximize their impact.
