“I’d rather be skiing”

Gonzo outback naturalist Steve Irwin told an interviewer in 2002, “If I’m going to die, at least I want it filmed.” His death wish was realized in early September 2006 when, in a documentary being shot in Australia’s Great Barrier Reef, a stingray’s barbed tail pierced his chest and lodged in his heart.

As unpredictable as his ironic demise was, what remained all too predictable was the next-day water cooler talk: “Well, he died doing what he loved.” After Irwin used his last conscious seconds, perhaps fueled purely by instinct, to pull the toxic barb out of his chest, he probably was not thinking to himself, “At least I’m doing what I love.” My guess is that his final thoughts centered on the intense pain of the mortal wound or of the family he was leaving behind.

When an athlete, actor or soldier is killed in the pursuit of their livelihood or duty, friends and relatives rush to resurrect the cliché. Such was the case with Karl Wallenda, patriarch of tightrope performers with a family history of high-wire tragedies. At the age of 73, Karl was attempting to walk a tightrope between two towers of a ten-story hotel in Puerto Rico when the wind picked up, and he fell to his death. People inevitably noted that he died doing what he loved. Yes, if what he loved was screaming in sheer terror for every inch of the 120-foot plummet to the ground.

Jim Fixx, who single-handedly spurred the 1970’s fitness revolution of running and jogging, dropped dead of a massive heart attack at the age of 52 while on his daily run. NASCAR champion Dale Earnhardt Sr., nicknamed “The Intimidator,” died of massive head injuries in the 2001 Daytona 500 when his Chevrolet spun nose-first into the retaining wall at 150 miles per hour.

Hollywood idol Tyrone Power, while performing a demanding dueling scene for the 1959 film “Solomon and Sheba,” suffered a fatal heart attack at the age of 44. Brandon Lee, 28-year-old son of martial arts icon Bruce Lee, died when he was accidentally shot in the stomach for a stunt scene in “The Crow.” At least actor Vic Morrow, killed instantly in a freak helicopter accident while shooting “Twilight Zone - The Movie,” didn’t have time to realize he was dying doing what he loved.

And then there is the grisly demise of Timothy Treadwell, the bear enthusiast who lived among Alaska’s brown bears for 13 years. Subject of the award-winning documentary “Grizzly Man,” the 46-year-old environmentalist, along with his girlfriend, was killed and partially devoured by a brown bear.

Truth be told, to say of any these died doing what they loved is doing a disservice to the individuals and their personal, very private experience of dying. Particularly poignant in this time of global unrest is a message found on the Internet from an anonymous mother who wondered, “When a soldier dies, why do they say he died doing what he loved?…How do you find love in occupying a vehicle, scared to death, hoping it isn’t the one that blows up?” She noted, “Dying doing something you love is dying while gardening.”

I’m reminded of a story about legendary screen comedian Stan Laurel, who, on his death bed, told his nurse, “I wish I was skiing.”

“Oh, Mr. Laurel,” the nurse said, “do you ski?”

“No,” he replied, “but I’d rather be skiing than doing what I’m doing.”