Obituary: Jon Dayan Spiller, of Mesa,
[Ariz.], passed away May 24, 2015. He went peacefully and surrounded by love.
Image 1: Jon Spiller (Facebook)
I met Jon Spiller once about
1990. I was with a friend visiting his mother, Roz, when he slunked in, told
Roz where he had been, where he was going, changed his shirt, and left. I was
briefly introduced. I may have said, “Hey man.” I don’t quite recall. That was
my sole interaction with him. Ever. Today, I am writing the story of his dying.
It is easy to write about life.
All you have to do is write about what has happened and who it happened with.
Death is pretty simple to write about as well because it mainly involves
writing about those left behind. In that sense, both are shared experiences.
Dying, however, is harder to write about. It’s a journey that exposes the
victim right down to their core. Dying is ours alone and belongs to no one
else.
Jon was a relatively young man in
his 40s when he died. Prior to that moment he slowly accumulated a catalog of
chronic conditions, including celiac disease, diabetes, psoriasis, and ulcerative
proctitis. Yet, those were not what killed him. It was cancer — cancer that ate
away his nose and face.
According to the American Cancer
Society, in 2015, the year Jon died, approximately 1,620 people died of the
disease every day. The day that Jon died, about 1,619 other families sat
forlorn at hospital beds or in small bedrooms at home filled with the detritus
of their loved ones’ medical care. Some died alone. Some died forgotten too
quickly. The only immortality we can be sure of is in thoughts of those who
loved us, and when they go our existence finally fades away, save for a few
words preserved in cyberspace that may linger long after even those who loved
us have passed on.
He Flies With His Own Wings
Jon Spiller got a rocky start in
life at 3.5 pounds at birth. His immune system, which was problematic in his
end days, was comprised from the start. From birth, Jon was constantly hungry.
As an infant, he was barely strong enough to sit up and eat. Like most boys, he
drew on walls with crayons, played baseball, tested his strength, and otherwise
often got into mischief. At the young age of 3, Jon figured out how to sneak
into the neighbor’s horse paddock to play with their horse, who could have
easily trampled him, but he miraculously managed to escape harm.
Roz encouraged Jon’s interest in
Little League Baseball, but as the other parents’ arguments over close calls
grew more hostile, he asked Roz if she wouldn’t mind if he dropped out. It just
wasn’t fun anymore. As a young boy, Jon measured his growing strength by trying
to move heavy items, eventually to the point he got a hernia. Roz was unable to
stay with Jon overnight in the hospital, but an older boy sharing the room with
Jon looked after him.
There was always an angel looking
over Jon. He required some extra attention growing up, but, as Roz mused, life
sometimes requires a little extra heavy lifting.
Yes, doctor, I do in fact have a
hole you can look at . . .
Jon’s final journey first began
with persistent nosebleeds. An ENT (ear-nose-throat) doctor saw Jon, but
observed only a small wart-like growth. Nothing to worry about the doctor said,
according to Jon, not like it was cancer or anything, right? Perhaps it was
that infected tooth that needed to be pulled. Jon dutifully followed up, yet
the nosebleeds persisted. Upon a second visit to the ENT doctor, the growth had
grown so big it had pushed up through his septum and was now inoperable. It
could have been removed six weeks before, yet the knee-jerk reaction to avoid
an invasive medical procedure resulted in Jon’s death warrant.
The doctor was so startled when
he saw the dramatic increase in the size of the growth that he rolled his chair
way from Jon as though he had the plague. Yet, despite Jon’s catalog of
diseases, there was little coordination among his various specialists. Patients
are left to navigate the confusing world of medical treatment and health
insurance on their own, and almost always at a time when they are ill-equipped
to do so. The stress from being sick, facing one’s mortality, missing work, not
having enough money for the drugs you need, and then discovering the drugs you
were prescribed not only made things worse, but also reduced the days you have
left on the planet. It's no way to live while you're dying.
Jon’s multiple medical conditions
resulted in his doctors shifting from one treatment to another. Some of the
drugs helped one condition, but aggravated others, and lowered his immune system.
Was the cancer the result of drugs for his ulcerative proctitis suppressing his
already compromised immune system due to his celiac disease? Should Jon have
insisted on having the growth removed as soon as it was noticed? Was that even
presented to him as an option from a medical community adverse to invasive
procedures unless absolutely necessary? Unfortunately, by the time it was
"absolutely necessary" for Jon, it was too late.
A May 19, 2019, article in Forbes, “Doctoring the Doctor Shortage,”
reports on the decrease of physicians available to treat an increasing U.S.
population. The American Association of Medical Colleges predicts a dearth of
120,000 physicians by 2030. As the shortage grows, the number of patients per doctor
increases and less time is available to review medical records and coordinate
efforts with other doctors. More importantly, however, less time is spent with
the patients and time-consuming operations may be postponed until non-invasive
treatments have been exhausted.
Anyone who has endured a journey
through the medical system knows that advice, treatment, and recommendations
can vary from doctor to doctor. Looking for a cause to Jon’s various medical
conditions, and the cancer itself, we are only left with questions. There are
countless variables that could have contributed to his death, and it may have
not been just one cause. We consume heavily processed foods in mass quantities
filled with chemicals. Until 1979, cancer-causing PCBs were used in the
electrical transformers on top utility poles in every neighborhood and Jon was
of the last generation of children exposed to them. Though the evidence is not
conclusive, could it have been radiofrequency radiation from cell phones? How
many of us talk with our phones right in front of our faces, exactly where
Jon’s cancer developed? Was it an unrelated genetic predisposition that was
just somehow triggered?
In another fifty years, quantum
computing and artificial intelligence, in combination with more advanced
genetic testing, may provide us with the ability to fully analyze our bodies down
to the molecular level. There would be no equivocation about whether Jon’s
small growth was cancerous or how bad it would get. In that time, medical
technology may advance to the point that removing that small growth in Jon’s
nose will be considered a minimally invasive outpatient procedure. Those fifty
years, however, may as well be 1,000 years away for it all the good it will
those of us reading this now and reflecting on how it could have helped a loved
one that is no longer with us just intensifies our grief.
Image 2: Jon Spiller, shortly before his death
(by permission of his family).
At the end of his life, the
cancer ravaged Jon’s face (Image 2) and towards the end left him about 50
pounds lighter, blind, and as helpless as he was when first brought into this
world. I was hesitant to include his picture, but that was the reality Jon had
to face and to fully appreciate his strength of character we must gaze upon it
as well. What do you feel? Fear? Compassion? Look closer and in your reaction you
will see your own reflection. It is during these long illnesses that we have to
face our own mortality. During those times our character, and all that we
learned and loved, is tested. It is not just a picture of Jon Spiller — it is a
mirror. In it, we see ourselves.
I attended Jon’s memorial
service. Several dozen people slowly filled the room. Old acquaintances greeted
each other in hushed tones. One of Jon’s nephews, a talented guitar player,
strummed quietly for his cousins, but declined the push to perform. As the
speakers shared their memories of Jon’s life, a heart-rendering anxiety hung in
the air over all of us, like the Sword of Damocles. I was reminded of the
ancient Roman tombstone epitaph: “Where you are now, I once was. Where I am
now, you will be.”
Cyber Afterlife
According to Oxford University,
by 2070 the number of dead Facebook users is likely to exceed the number of
living users. By 2100, approximately 1.4 billion of the current estimated 2.27
billion users will have died. I have known several Facebook users who have
passed. One young man I knew, a fellow teacher, died of a heroin overdose. No
one knew of his addiction. The last post on his Facebook page is the picture of
a solar panel system he installed. People can still post on his page years
after his death, though none have. The Facebook page of another friend, who
also passed away of cancer, is filled with travel photos, birthday well-wishes,
and then farewells from family and friends, even in the months after her death.
While Facebook gets its fair
share of criticism, for many of us it will be the sole record of our existence
on Earth. Family photos will get lost or destroyed. Government and medical
records are buried deep behind layers of security. Nevertheless, even if
Facebook closes down, the pages will still be available somewhere in
cyberspace. Imagine if we had access to the equivalent of Facebook for the
ancient world. Not only could we learn so much of those civilizations, but the
individual struggles and dreams of millions of people would not have been lost
to time. Every post and comment becomes our legacy to the future.
Jon’s final post on Facebook is
an updated profile picture (Image 1) dated September 22, 2014 — ironically,
just eight days after my mother’s death and eight months before his own. He looks out into the camera. His
full, open, friendly face has a slight smile.
It is full of hope.
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