Dr. Zwart’s Guide to Dying Well (and Laughing About It)

By Willem DeWit

Author of From Stardust To Self

1: The Art of the Exit
Bert Zwart always claimed the hardest part of life was leaving it. “It’s like a bad dinner party,” he’d chuckle. “The food’s been mediocre, the company’s fine, but you’re still waiting for a signal it’s okay to grab your coat and go.”

As a physician in a nursing home, he was no stranger to this sentiment. His patients often sought clarity about life’s final act. Bert gave them honesty, often laced with dark humor.

“Am I dying?”
“Well,” Bert would say, leaning on his stethoscope, “I wouldn’t book any cruise tickets, but you’ve still got time to binge-watch something.”

The room always softened with laughter, a precious buffer against fear.

2: Euthanasia, with a Side of Gallows Humor
If euthanasia was taboo, Bert broke it like a bull in a china shop. “Death is like a nosy neighbor,” he’d explain to his students. “You can’t keep it out forever. Best to decide when it’s invited in.”

Mrs. Veldkamp was one such neighbor. At 92, bedridden with arthritis, she greeted Bert with, “If you’re here to chat, doctor, save your breath. If you’ve got the injection, hand it over.”

“Not even a cup of tea first?” Bert teased.
She grinned. “Only if it’s Irish.”

That’s how their ritual began. Over whiskey-laced tea, they discussed her life, her regrets, and her readiness to leave. Bert marveled at her courage.

“You’ll be my best euthanasia case,” he said.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Doctor,” she shot back.

3: The Meaning of Life (Hint: There Isn’t One)
In his off-hours, Bert pondered mortality’s big questions. His favorite thought experiment? Explaining death to a dog.

“Imagine telling Fido that the stick-chasing days are numbered,” Bert mused to his wife, who’d learned to humor his existential ramblings. “He’d just wag his tail and ask for a snack.”

Death didn’t need to be feared, Bert believed. It was simply life running out of tape. What mattered was the rewind button: the memories, laughter, and love you left behind.

4: The Final Act
Bert’s own death came with less fanfare than expected. Slipping on an icy curb, he hit his head. His colleagues joked he’d have hated the anticlimax. “He always wanted something dramatic,” they said, “like a piano falling from the sky.”

At his funeral, a note was read in Bert’s handwriting:
“If you’re crying, stop. If you’re laughing, good. And if you’re eating stale sandwiches at the reception, complain loudly. That’s what I’d do.”

His patients remembered him not for curing their ailments, but for the wisdom and humor he shared about their endings.

Epilogue: Lessons from a Funny Man
Bert Zwart taught us that death isn’t an enemy; it’s a poorly-dressed dinner guest who’s best met with a raised eyebrow and a joke. In the end, he left us the way he lived: chuckling at life’s absurdity and giving us permission to do the same.