On death and partying

All about the five stages of New Year's Eve

by Robert David Sullivan (with assistance from Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, MD)

MANY OF US look forward to New Year's Eve the way we look forward to a biopsy. At the stroke of midnight, we single people are reminded that we have gone another year without finding a mate, and that the odds against us have just inched upward. Not that couples have it so easy: they must face the question "Didn't he [or she] kiss me a little more passionately last year?"

Yes, New Year's Eve is that magical time when everyone looks into the face of death and shudders simultaneously. It's your birthday, anniversary, and class reunion all rolled into one night of anxious glances at the mirror. The only thing that makes it bearable is that you're surrounded by people suffering just as much as you are. When an entire year crawls toward its end, all of us are like terminal patients.

But how to entertain a bunch of people when mortality is looming ahead like the iceberg in Titanic? Martha Stewart is clearly not much help, since her books and TV shows work on the assumption that everyone has way too much time on their hands -- and can fill their hours making things like pie crusts and light bulbs from scratch. Happily, I have discovered an alternative that captures the spirit of New Year's Eve right down to the marrow: Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross's classic tome On Death and Dying (Touchstone, 286 pages, $11 paperback). Facetiously described on the back cover as "one of the most important psychological studies of the late twentieth century," this whirlwind tour of Liz's favorite hospices and cancer wards is surreptitiously filled with party tips so artfully arranged that you'll recall them long after forgetting your name and all basic motor functions.

Once again proving that the initial K means comedy (think Andy Kaufman, Kevorkian, Kafka . . . ), Kübler-Ross wryly describes the five stages of a "terminal illness," her thinly disguised metaphor for a successful New Year's Eve party. Here are some of her prescriptions, followed by a layman's suggestions for making them work.

Stage One: Denial
Most reacted to the awareness of a terminal illness at first with the statement, "No, not me, it cannot be true."

Kübler-Ross cleverly uses a lame rip-off of Gloria Gaynor's classic lyric "Oh no, not I/I will survive" to convey the derivative nature of New Year's Eve parties. She is telling us that it's okay to begin celebrating the holiday by pretending that it's not there. If entertaining at home, crank the heat to 90 degrees, serve ice-cold lemonade, and complain about the sweltering July weather. Or pretend that it's last New Year's Eve and ask guests to describe their big plans for 1998. (Remember to be encouraging! "I know you can do it" is so much more fun to say when you already know otherwise.)

A more regressive method of treatment is to begin the evening with dinner and drinks at your favorite college hangout, where you and your fellow "freshmen" can discuss how you'll spend those $80,000 salaries waiting for you immediately after graduation. The most extreme method is to have the party at your parents' house, where a pint of Southern Comfort (purchased by your coolest friend's older brother) will be used to spike 43 glasses of Juicy Juice.

When we saw the patient she was inappropriately cheerful, laughed and giggled, and reassured us that she was completely well.

At this point, guests should be gleefully trading such comments as "I'm so relieved that I don't make enough money to invest in that volatile stock market," and "It's so nice to have no one to go home to." Suggested songs for your CD player include R.E.M.'s "Shiny Happy People."

In the case of Mrs. K. [ha!] . . . there were days when she stuffed herself with forbidden foods, only to suffer twice as much the next days.

Does a 19-year-old have to worry about clogged arteries or a high cholesterol level? No, and neither should you or your guests. After all, you have decades to correct your diet before it catches up with you. As for drinking, you'll still be young when the drug companies introduce an easy-to-swallow pill that will grow you a new liver (using the same principles of science that brought us Sea Monkeysreg.). Oh, and smoke 'em if you've got 'em!

Stage Two: Anger
When the first stage of denial cannot be maintained any longer, it is replaced by feelings of anger, rage, envy, and resentment. The logical next question becomes: "Why me?"

If all goes well, your party should be overwhelmed by bitterness by about 10:30 p.m., as guests realize that they've wasted the past few hours trying to convince themselves that they're happy. A good host will channel their anger constructively. Voodoo dolls can perk things up, as can burning people in effigy. (Check local ordinances before striking that match.) Add a new twist to a tired Thanksgiving tradition by asking guests to tell what made them most rageful in 1998: inconsiderate neighbors, bad movies, dates from hell, stupid coworkers.

So this patient makes sure that he is not forgotten. He will raise his voice, he will make demands, he will complain and ask to be given attention. . . .

Loud a cappella renditions of "My Way" (in the style of Sid Vicious, not that wimp Sinatra) are encouraged at this stage. The Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated" is another popular choice.

She was allowed to be herself, hostile and demanding. . . . She was also allowed to ventilate some of her rage.

If your party is in a high-rise apartment, you can't go wrong by copying the film Network: throw open the windows and scream, "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!" A more high-tech option is to pass around a cell phone so that guests may leave nasty voice-mail messages with insurance companies, auto-repair shops, and any government bureaucracy that steals precious hours from our unreasonably short lives. (Remember the code for blocking caller ID at the other end: *67.) Suggested party favors at this stage of the evening include copies of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, which can be read aloud -- really aloud -- by all the men on one side of the room and all the women on the other. For extra bile, make the men read the Elizabeth Taylor role.

Stage Three: Bargaining
If we have been unable to face the sad facts in the first period and have been angry at people and God in the second phase, maybe we can succeed in entering into some sort of an agreement which may postpone the inevitable happening.

As the year dwindles down to a few minutes, some guests may be seized by the idea that it's still possible to please God and salvage 1998 through some grand gesture -- such as stamping out a "last cigarette" or writing a sizable (and tax-deductible) check to the host's favorite charity. In choosing your guest list, try to include pairings that might result in spontaneous marriage proposals or job resignations.

A patient who was an opera singer asked to perform just one more time.

Here's a chance to permanently retire the card tricks, novelty songs, long-winded stories, and inane catch phrases that you and your friends have run into the ground.

The bargaining . . . has to include a prize offered "for good behavior."

If you have a dusty NordicTrack or any other exercise equipment in your closet, allow guests to get in one last (or first) workout of the year, with rewards available for their perseverance. Ten seconds on a rowing machine, for example, may entitle a person to two fudge brownies. Another guest may be trying to be more aggressive in meeting people. If he manages to say one complete sentence to a stranger ("Oops, excuse me" is more than adequate), he's entitled to five shots of tequila.

Many of our patients also promised to give parts of or their whole body "to science."

Note Kübler-Ross's sly euphemism for "nookie."

Stage Four: Depression
When the terminally ill patient can no longer deny his illness . . . when he begins to have more symptoms or becomes weaker and thinner, he cannot smile it off anymore.

This stage generally occurs at about 12:30 a.m., when guests realize that they've already made fools of themselves for the first time that year, and the host discovers chocolate stains all over the couch and broken China under the cushions. It's time to haul out the Billie Holiday CDs, and any other torch songs by dead divas.

When there is so much pain already, some added pain is not experienced as much as when it hits a healthy pain-free body.

The guests will sit in a stupor until the host makes a move at putting away the food. At this point, everyone will rouse themselves enough to fight for any remaining sources of sugar. Alcohol consumption will be at its heaviest, since hangovers can no longer be avoided anyway.

With the extensive treatment and hospitalization, financial burdens are added; little luxuries at first and necessities later on may not be afforded anymore.

As this stage reaches its conclusion, the refreshment table should contain: three bottles of warm Diet Polar Cola, some peach-kumquat wine coolers, and a bowl of tortilla-chip crumbs with the consistency of ground glass. The only paper product in the bathroom should be a roll of paper towels, perforated every three feet. It's hopeless to send someone to Store 24 for supplies -- your party is now the pits, and that's okay.

Stage Five: Acceptance
It is as if the pain had gone, the struggle is over, and there comes a time for "the final rest before the long journey."

By this time, no guest is on his or her feet, and many of them are unconscious. The host must now "play God" by deciding who may stay and who must be cast out into purgatory (i.e., looking for a cab in Boston).

Visitors are often not desired and if they come, the patient is no longer in a talkative mood. . . . This is the time when the television is off. Our communications then become more nonverbal than verbal.

Moaning, crying, and laughing for no apparent reason are all good options here. Silently vowing to ignore next New Year's Eve is also a popular treatment.

Acceptance is especially challenging for the host, who realizes that only the guests at this party will experience the true nature of death: they get to leave without even paying the bill, and somebody else has to clean up the mess.