At the start of this year, an unconventional wager was struck in our household when my brother-in-law, Phil, placed a casual bet with our dog, Macy. I allowed the proceedings to move forward with the full awareness that our canine companion possessed no cash reserves of her own, meaning she stood to lose little more than a battered, much-chewed toy. This dark moment of lighthearted gambling had been prompted by a sobering medical reality: both hound and human had recently received diagnoses of incurable cancers that had progressed to a stage where medical teams advised stopping active treatment and allowing the underlying disease to take its course. While the subject matter is undeniably heavy, the journey that followed proved to be filled with life-changing moments, remarkable acts of human will, and even a surprising measure of humor.
Macy ultimately lost the wager rather badly—thank goodness she never discovered the perils of blackjack—and departed in March. Phil has now passed away as well, with his funeral scheduled for this week. Yet, this column is not truly about either of them. Instead, it is an exploration of that timeless, nagging human question: "But what does it all mean?" Because when Phil placed that lighthearted bet at the beginning of the year, he simultaneously established a couple of powerful, immovable caveats regarding his final months. He made it explicitly clear that he was not going to die before 5 September, the date he and my sister had meticulously planned to host a major party celebrating her milestone birthday alongside a significant wedding anniversary. Furthermore, he stipulated that when his time finally came, he would pass away inside a carefully selected hospice rather than at home.
The path to that milestone celebration required a logistical balancing act. I headed straight to the grand gathering from The Monocle Quality of Life Conference. My partner collected me directly from Heathrow Airport, and I hurriedly changed my clothes in the back of the car as we navigated traffic, desperately trying not to arrive too late. It proved to be an extraordinary and deeply moving night, even though an underlying melancholy lingered, as I was acutely aware that this would be the final time all three of my sisters, their respective partners, and my own partner would ever be gathered together in the same room.
In the days immediately following that grand party—where he had held court and celebrated with the people he cherished most—Phil’s physical health experienced a sharp and rapid decline. He was subsequently transferred to the hospice he had chosen. True to his remarkable determination, on the very first night at the facility, after his family had departed for the evening, he quietly passed away. In the wake of his passing, I have discussed this phenomenon at length with my sister: how that single date circled on the calendar acted as an anchor that kept him going, and how his sheer psychological resolve to make it safely to the hospice kept him alive for one final day. He maintained a clear purpose, a defined plan, and a steadfast will that bowed only when his conditions were met.
Just last week, while I was traveling with the Monocle team at the Livex liveability summit in Abu Dhabi, I had the privilege of hosting an extensive panel discussion centered on the intricate science and urban design required to create genuinely healthy cities. I had the opportunity to quiz three exceptional minds on the topic: Dan Buettner, the acclaimed writer and researcher who has popularized global studies surrounding "blue zones"—the distinct geographical regions known for housing exceptionally high concentrations of centenarians; Max Lugavere, a highly successful author and podcaster who focuses heavily on nutritional science and cognitive health; and Khaled Ghattass, an author and human-behavior expert who brought a vital Arabic perspective to the conversation. While our dialogue naturally touched upon the foundational pillars of diet and exercise, a profound theme quickly emerged that transcended physical regimens: the critical importance of a life anchored by deep personal meaning.
During the panel, Ghattass shared several stark and sobering examples regarding the physiological toll of lost purpose. He noted statistical insights showing that if a person’s long-term partner passes away, the surviving spouse is roughly 60 percent more likely to die within the subsequent year. Offering a touch of dark humor to the solemn auditorium, I remarked that I sincerely hope my sister does not get any similar ideas, noting that there is a strict limit to how many bereavement days I can possibly take off from work. Ghattass also elaborated on why individuals frequently succumb to sudden physical illness and accelerated cognitive decline immediately following retirement. He recounted the personal story of how his own father’s mental health deteriorated rapidly after he stopped working, and how he successfully reversed this downward spiral by deliberately reintroducing purpose into his father’s daily routine. By placing his father squarely back in charge of managing the family’s finances, the older man’s mental acuity and vitality flourished once again.
Buettner’s extensive demographic research powerfully reinforces this fundamental concept. He explained during our discussion that individuals who achieve exceptional longevity almost invariably maintain robust social circles that actively reinforce healthy behaviors. These individuals typically benefit from strong, enduring family ties, active faith systems, and reliable networks of friends who can be counted upon in times of need. Furthermore, Buettner highlighted surprising physical correlations discovered in his research, noting that people who regularly engage in volunteer work tend to maintain lower body mass indexes compared to those who do not. Providing a striking cultural illustration of an existence fully integrated with ongoing purpose, he pointed out that in Okinawa, Japan—one of the world’s most renowned blue zones—there is not even a native word in the local vocabulary for "retire."
The collective wisdom of these experts points toward a singular, demanding conclusion: if an individual wishes to sustain their health, maintain cognitive alertness, and navigate the aging process with resilience, they must be able to satisfactorily answer a deceptively simple question upon waking each morning. They must know precisely what they are here for, and they need to find that clarity before they have even finished their morning wholegrain toast. If these principles hold true, it appears I may well end up shuffling around the corridors of Midori House as a nonagenarian someday. Perhaps, when that time comes, I can be placed in charge of overseeing the office drinks trolley. Judging by my current trajectory, I suspect I would be rather good at it.
