Where will you go to die?

Haven't thought about it? You should.

Oct 12, 2023

One of me and my partner’s favourite holiday spots in Vietnam is a French retirement home that’s open to paying vacationers year-round. The home/resort sits on beautifully-landscaped grounds, immaculately maintained, replete with koi and kittens and peacocks and swans. It boasts a large L-shaped swimming pool, two pétanque courts, two pool tables, a sticky dart board, a foosball table, a badminton court, and a mini gym with loose weights. The kitchen serves up unrivalled Vietnamese and French delicacies, buffet-style, three times a day. At every meal, the two gracious owners come by your table to make sure all your needs are being met. Then, towards the end of service, if the motherly chef deems you haven’t eaten enough, she asks if you want ice cream.

If utopia existed, I imagine it would look a lot like this.

Which is why, each time we’ve stayed at the resort, I’ve asked myself whether I’d want to retire here, join the dwindling ranks of French and Francophone retirees tutting at the noisy holidaymakers, spend my days writing and peacock-watching from my front porch, gorge myself silly on croissants and Camembert, go for an afternoon dip then lie reading in the hammock by the pool until the sun sets and dinner is served.

What a life it would be.

No, what a lovely place to die.

Where will you go to die?

I think about death a lot, more than the average person. I also happen to think the average person doesn’t think about death enough.

It’s curious how little thought we spare this event that will occur with a 100% certainty, while fantasising far more about things whose probability is, if we’re honest, close to zero—like becoming a millionaire, quitting your job to travel the world, that white house by the beach, selling tens of millions of books (guilty).

Not that we shouldn’t allocate some headspace to figuring out how to make our wildest dreams come true. But considering we will all certainly die, should we not think about death just a little more?

We plan for our degree, our first job, our promotion, our career switch, our spectacular success, our holiday, our retirement. Why shouldn’t we plan for our death?

Obviously, you can’t plan when death will come knocking. But, provided it doesn’t come calling before your time, there’s much that you can plan and prepare for.

Starting with: Where will you go to die?

Do you want to die in the familiarity of your own home? In which case you’ll have to consider how elderly-friendly it is. Do you need to install a stair lift? Shift your bedroom to the ground floor? How about care? How easy or difficult will it be to find, and afford, daytime and nighttime care? And then there’s provisions. Can you easily get groceries and essentials if, say, you can no longer drive or walk?

Or, like me, do you prefer to die in the convenience of a retirement home? In which case you’ll have to decide to which establishment you want to entrust your future; how much money it will cost; when you want to sell all your possessions, pack your life into a single suitcase, and move to your new home.1

Lots of questions to answer, details to work out—and the clock is ticking.

But why?

I will likely die alone. Statistically speaking, men don’t live as long as women. Add to that the significant age gap between me and my partner, and the probability that I will die alone creeps very close to 100%.

The knowledge that I will spend the last few decades of my life—hopefully not too many—without my partner by my side is a major motivator for me to make plans around my death. Where will I be? How will I spend my days? These questions acquire a desperate urgency as soon as I accept the inevitability of the partner-shaped void my future holds.

I have no siblings. I’m not close with relatives my age or younger. My parents, aunts, and uncles will be long gone. I have wonderful friends I hope to grow old with, but it will be unfair on them—not to mention plain silly—to task them with my future happiness.

My partner and I don’t plan on having children. Even if we changed our minds, which is highly unlikely, I’d never saddle mine with the burden of my old age, as those from my cultural background are wont to do.

Ultimately, it’s my fervent belief that—the same way we’re responsible for our lives—we’re responsible for our deaths.

Taking charge of your death, I’d argue, should be among the most important tasks on your lifetime to-do list—up there with regular exercise, eating well, nurturing relationships, and investing for retirement. And don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating you spend your days death-dreaming, give up on living. On the contrary. Taking the reins of your death prompts you to accept its inevitability, an acceptance which might actually spur you to live more fully, more urgently—to do what matters now rather than later.

Have you saved and invested enough to live on post-retirement? Have you got people—family, partner, friends—you can grow old with? Do you have meaningful hobbies that will sustain you? What will happen when you can no longer care for yourself?

These questions, if you’ve never asked them before, can be overwhelming. In which case, start with the simple, practical matter of where you will go to die.

Then let your answer to that guide the rest.

What do you think?

Am I being morbid? Maybe. Do I think these are deadly important questions to ask? Definitely.

Where will you go to die?

Would you rather grow old in your living room, or find new community in a retirement home? What thoughts have you had, if any, about your impending death? Any advice for me and other readers? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this with someone you’d love to grow old with.

Where will you go to die?

Haven't thought about it? You should.

Where will you go to die?

But why?

What do you think?

Where will you go to die?

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