Steven’s ‘Final Lecture’

Randy Pausch died July 25 from complications of pancreatic cancer. Before he died, he became an unlikely celebrity for his “Final Lecture,” a dying man bestowing last words of wisdom from “The Oprah Winfrey Show” to YouTube to a $7 million book deal.

His “Final Lecture” inspired countless thousands, maybe millions of people.

A friend and I talked recently about the phenomenon of Randy Pausch. And I noticed two things: 1) I’ve already given my Final Lecture, and 2) I wonder if Randy enjoyed leaving this life as a celebrity, or if he ever found it an intrusion upon his privacy.

Let me begin with No. 2.

See, I’m confident that, if today I receive the news that I have a terminal illness, my reaction will be powerful and dramatic. I’ll be sore afraid. I’ll weep. Maybe even panic a bit. I think I will, at least for a time, and perhaps a long time, think, feel and behave as if something extraordinary has happened to me. As if my life was extraordinary.

But I’ll be wrong. Because death isn’t extraordinary. And therefore my own personal death can’t be extraordinary. My death is not even one of the more important parts of me.

I like to think Randy was “called” to share his death with us. You know, the way Mother Teresa said she believed God for God’s own reasons had called her life and ministry to celebrity. (She said more than once she knew plenty of nuns who worked harder and whose faith was stronger.)

And if I’m right that Randy felt “called,” then I’m grateful to him for saying “yes.” True, faithful celebrity is a burden. It has a cost. I think Randy did it well.

But unless I was similarly “called,” I don’t think I’d want to die so publicly. Death is personal and intimate. Not sure yet who I’ll want to invite to my death (assuming I’m afforded the opportunity to die a conscious death), but I’m thinking the list will be small. About the same size as the list of people I’d invite to watch me floss.

And if I wasn’t “called” (as I think Randy was), then what on Earth would be my motive for wanting to haul my ordinary self and my ordinary death and my ordinary cancer on to the set of “Oprah Winfrey”? My legacy, you say? Hmm . . . where would I have gotten the idea that I’m in charge of my legacy? Or, frankly, that I require a legacy at all to say that I have lived well. Lived meaningfully.

If I die a conscious death, I can imagine scribbling a few letters, calling some folks to my bedside and giving away a few trinkets and mementos, but constructing a legacy? I’m going to trust my children and my friends to construct my legacy. They are free, then, to cherish the parts deserving to be cherished, and to roll their eyes and forgive — or not forgive — the parts that are derelict.

I’ll be dead. I’ll be on to other things. I’m saying I’m questioning whether “my legacy” is any of my business whatsoever.

My Final Lecture? I’ve already given it. So have you. Damn well better have, anyway, if we’re paying attention at all. Because there’s no guarantee I’m not going to keel over on this keyboard before I’m done with this column, is there? Or that you’re gonna finish reading it.

My Final Lecture might morph some if I live another 40 years, but I doubt very much it will change radically. Ready? Here goes:

Life is real. It’s not a game. Choices have consequences. Some of the consequences are rather nasty. Some of them are permanent. Only truth, love and beauty can make you wealthy, and each of these riches includes suffering. Violence stinks. Laughter heals. Respect is the most important rule. Wanna know God? Then go. Now. And love someone.

Well, whaddya know. Looks like I’m gonna live through this column. Guess I’m gonna have to mow the yard after all. See you next time.

Maybe.