Memento Mori

"Let us prepare our minds as if we'd come to the very end of life. Let us postpone nothing. Let us balance life's books each day.... The one who puts the finishing touches on their life each day is never short of time." --Seneca 

Caveat: This post involves a discussion of death. If you are sensitive about this topic, or you feel it is “too morbid” (as Mom used to say)—then all the more reason for you to read on.

Spoiler alert: We’re all going to die. I mean, seriously, folks; no one gets out alive.

Well, Boomers, it’s been a good run. We had the Beatles (or, if you prefer, the Stones), the sexual revolution, the signing of the Civil Rights Act, and we watched a man walk on the moon. We witnessed the end of apartheid in South Africa. We learned how to use computers so we could forward funny emails and see photos of our grandkids on Facebook. We were dragged into using smart phones—but now we never put them down so we can post even more pictures of our grandkids—and our pets, who are now our “babies”—on Facebook (and, if we’re still learning, on Twitter and Instagram). We can now embrace our gay and transgender friends in public, and we can happily introduce them as “married” or whatever. We elected a President of African descent.

On the flip side (for those of you unfamiliar with the term, it has to do with turning over a vinyl record), we participated in global warming. We struggled through the Vietnam War era, whether we agreed or disagreed with that military action. We saw heroes like Martin Luther King, Jr. (and many, many others) shot down (or lynched or beaten) for their stand against injustice. We witnessed the horror of September 11, 2001. (Just writing that sentence brought tears to my eyes.)

And now this. Medical authorities are still gathering data and creating statistical models, but at this point it looks like, if you’re my age, 1 in 10 of you will die if you are infected with COVID-19. Your risk is higher than the general population if you have “underlying respiratory issues.”

And, Boomers, who doesn’t? We’ve got asthma, COPD, emphysema, and, in my case, bronchiectasis from all those cigarettes we smoked and joints we passed around. (Well, not in my case; I’m a non-smoker who, to this date, has still never taken a toke from a doobie, but I do have congenital bronchiectasis.)

So, my question is, what are you doing while you’re waiting to die? Just sitting there? Wringing your hands and worrying that you’re next in line for the Grim Reaper’s knock at the door?

Stop. Stop it right now. Okay, go wash your hands thoroughly then come back.

Feel better? Good. Now make a plan.

Is your will up to date? If not, get ‘er done today.

Have you written out plans for your demise? (Do Not Resuscitate! Play James Taylor songs at my memorial service. Spread my ashes in Missouri. Whatever you do, don’t take Thomas off of Science Diet dog food!)

Speaking of pets: I’ve written out instructions as to how to feed my crew. My son (bless him!) has promised to come from Ohio and stay in my house and care for “my fur babies” should I need to be hospitalized.

Which reminds me: I need to leave instructions on how to pay the rent.

And, hey kids! All my log-in passwords are in the…. Oh wait. I’d better tell them that privately.

With all of those instructions laid out, what is left for you to ‘balance life’s books’? Where do you need to add the “finishing touches”? We are all going to transition eventually. Let’s don’t leave a tangled mess for our kids to sort through.

That was a lesson I learned from my mom. In the months before her death—even though she wasn’t sick—she took me and my brother aside to explain her finances, her life insurance policies, and the pre-paid plans for her cremation and memorial services. What a relief and a blessing it was that, in our grief, few decisions had to be made.

I’m kicking myself now for not pre-paying my cremation. Sorry, kids. Take it out of my bank account.

Last week, our biggest problem was finding toilet paper. This week, our biggest problem has been finding food. Next week, our greatest sorrow will be when our friends or family members become ill or pass away, and we cannot be with them to comfort them or say good-bye. (Which is another point taken; start saying your I love yous to everyone now.)

Grief will shut us down quick, make no mistake about that.

In the meantime, keep moving forward. Here, I’ll leave you with a quote from another one of our heroes, Sylvester Stallone:

“You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward….”

PS: I love you.

Friday

It wasn't cancer this time. This time, I didn't see the look of panic-held-in-check concern on my doctor's face. I did not feel the stomach flop because the word "malignant" wasn't spoken. Nor did I have that dizzy whirlwind of a moment when I demand of myself the answers to a thousand questions, the first of which is "Who will raise my children?"

This time, in a fifteen-minute consult with a dermatologist, I learned about Seborrheic Keratoses (and also about how most women don't talk about it as these are spots which come with aging, and they seem to cluster around women's breasts). Up until I heard the doc say, "Actually, what you're seeing is not even a mole, it's something even more benign..." I'd been taking shallow breaths but trying to remind myself to breathe deeply, walking tall but experiencing brief flashbacks to the cancer scare twenty years ago when I became paralyzed on the couch for days, waiting for surgery, then test results.

This time, I was free. Free to go home, no follow-up appointment to wait for, no hasty plans to spend the day as a surgical out-patient. Free to hand out candy to trick or treaters and smile at the pretty, pretty princesses and the awesome teenage mutant ninja turtles without having, behind my eyes, the specter of my mortality. This time I could rise the next morning and take my dog on a long walk without having to wonder who would take on this blessed activity (admittedly a chore to some folks) if I were no longer around to do it.

I usually don't talk about my brief but scary bout with skin cancer twenty years ago because, well, when I do, I feel more than a bit of survivor's guilt. The original misdiagnosis of malignant melanoma sent me into a tailspin from which I was still trying to recover when it was determined that, no, this cancer wasn't going to threaten my life; it would hardly even inconvenience me. Since then I have lost a brother to the real kind of cancer, the kind that knocks you down for a while until you fight your way back up, demanding to live life on your own terms, not those dictated by the disease. I have a friend now who has just finished his last round of last-ditch-effort chemo. He, like my brother, 'should have,' 'would have' died many years ago. But Jerry, like my brother, has not been willing to go. They humble me with their courage.

Dan is in my thoughts today on this eve of All Soul's Day, as are others I have lost. As for me, Death was nowhere to be seen outside my door last night. Only trick or treaters.