About six years ago, at age seventy-two, I began to have difficulty maintaining an erection. That led to seeing a urologist and the discovery that I had serious prostate cancer. A lab test revealed my prostate specific antigen (PSA) count was 184, more than forty times the high point of the normal range. There was cancer in my bones as well. Things looked bleak. Today my PSA is 2.9. The cancer isn’t gone but we’ve reduced it significantly. Beyond life itself, one of the greatest joys I’ve been able to experience is that I am a first-time grandfather of a three-month-old boy, Harvey. Of course, he’s beautiful.

However, I don’t want this story to seem miraculous, the outcome of a fantastic hero’s journey, or some other kind of overstated blather. I segued from chemo infusions to oral chemo. Every night, I wake up to take four large white pills in addition to the twelve I take during the day, and then hope sleep will return within an hour. The difference between pre-seventy-two and post-seventy-two is that I expect to die. That’s not a morbid conclusion. Nobody gets out alive after age 122 anywhere in the world. I’ll probably fall short of that mark. I’m being reasonable about what lies ahead.

After reading Louise Aronson’s extraordinary book Elderhood, I’m embracing being an elder, which means letting go of the dreaded idea of being old; resisting pathologizing its normal progression; seeing myself as a capable person living within the twenty to thirty years I may have beyond sixty; and treating death as inevitable, but not as stultifying and morbid. So, when a friend from my wellness group asked me, “What songs would you like to hear at your funeral?” I took her seriously and with a measure of delight.

Like most human beings, I love music—the songs themselves, the dancing, the people I’ve shared them with, and the rapture they’ve aroused in me. Nonetheless, I hadn’t thought of the question and could only respond, “Well I don’t think it will be a funeral, more likely a memorial. But I haven’t thought of your question before. I’ll need to think about it.”

She answered, “Sure. I only came up with a few songs when I thought about it, but it took me to some interesting places.”

Later that evening, I found myself intrigued by the question. Where do I begin? I settled on favorite songs, favorite family members and friends, and favorite experiences with them. With those cues, I let my mind wander.

The first thing I noticed was that I loved the exercise. I didn’t feel compelled to come up with a playlist. I wanted to think about what songs emerged and take my time listening to them and remembering what I was doing with whom as I reminisced.

There were incidental insights that came to light as well. For example, the music played at funerals I’ve attended is not my music. It’s largely hymns and classical music not of my generation, taste, or inclination. Another was that when you couple a song with a friend and an experience, you have a short story, or at the very least, a well-articulated scene. The key was to begin with a strong emotion, let it emerge, and then use it as a conduit to settle into whatever manifested itself.

So, I began with love. I thought this feeling would help me find a song. With memories of family, friends, spouses, and lovers, what were those unforgettable moments? And what was the music playing along with them? My mind went back, way back to when I was a boy. The memory that took shape was watching my parents dance. Their relationship wasn’t trouble-free. Yet, when they danced together, I could see they loved each other. I treasured knowing that. In its own way, it made our family whole. So, I surprised myself and made my first choice the waltz they cherished, “The Blue Danube.”

Then I went to friendship and my best friend, Frank. We’ve been friends since we were nine years old. No matter where I am in the world, I know that on August 7, my birthday, I will get a call from him and when I pick up the phone, he will be singing “Happy Birthday” to me, a cappella. He’s never missed. This anecdote is just a taste.

We grew up in Detroit. As most kids in the city, we were huge Motown fans. As young adults, the Temptations were our favorite singing group. When “The Way You Do the Things You Do” came out, it blew us away. We played it in Frank’s rec room about thirty times, until we had it flat out memorized. Then we lip synced it with all their moves. That was pure joy.

A year after I received my cancer diagnosis, my wife, Margery, surprised me with tickets to the Bruce Springsteen concert in Chicago. I’m a fan, and have been to at least twenty of his concerts all over the world. This would be one of the best. It was a gift I will savor for as long as I am on this earth. We were only twelve rows from the stage. In a word: unforgettable. For that set, “Badlands” touched me most deeply.

There are more songs to consider. I think I see Nina Simone at the edge of another long moment of soul-satisfying music in the company of loved ones. Yet I’ve done enough remembering to realize selecting songs to share with friends and family at my memorial will encourage a celebration of our time together, something well beyond only loss. Something that’s available anywhere music can be played. I’m grateful for this consideration. I’ve learned again what a great song can do—take an entire life and condense it into a poem of lyrics, memory, and hope—and not least of all, a beat, a melody, and an urge to move, alive within its own ecstasy and candescence.

Raymond Wlodkowski is a cancer patient and a psychologist whose professional work for the last thirty years has focused on adult motivation and learning. He lives in Chicago. His most recent book is the memoir Living a Motivated Life (Brill/Sense, 2019). He has been the recipient of the Cyril O. Houle Award for Outstanding Literature in Adult Education.