My New Morbid Streak
I’ve been on a bit of a morbid streak for the past few days. Being middle aged I suppose that it’s bound to happen. There’s something about facing down last half of your life that makes one predisposed to being existential.
It all started when I was getting out of bed last week and found that I almost couldn’t. Nothing was physically wrong, at least, nothing aside from the ordinary aches and pains that usually accompany a man of my advancing years. Six in the morning came around and I was just too tired to gather up much gumption to start the day. That’s another part of getting older. Older people use the word “gumption”. They also, I’ve found, have some difficulty sleeping and tend to be tired all the time.
“Maybe this is how it starts” I thought to myself. “It” being the beginning of the end. “Maybe,” I continued, “that’s how a lot of people end up dying.”
Not everyone kicks off because of a stroke or a heart attack I reasoned. I’ll bet that more than a few people find they just can’t manage to get out of bed in the morning and go on to their great reward. One day they’re hitting the snooze button for an extra ten minutes and a few weeks later they’re sleeping around the clock and dreaming of that big Tempur-Pedic in the sky.
It turns out that just about any event, no matter how small, provides me with a chance to consider how fleeting life can be. Just this morning a cashier at the grocery store told me to have a good day. I paused for a bit before I could stumble upon the appropriate response and, when it didn’t arrive, all I could say was “I guess we’ll see if I live that long.”
I’d thought that I’d been keeping these morbid thoughts to myself but, apparently, my friends have taken notice. A few days ago one of my buddy’s, Nick, wanted to make plans to grab a few beers. Being aware of my impending mortality I suggested that sooner, perhaps, was going to be better than later.
“So you’ve got plans next week?” he asked in a somewhat confused tone.
“These days I think it’s best if we don’t put off anything too far into the future,” I said.
Nick, naturally, asked if anything was wrong. I assured him that I was, most likely, in fine health and then mentioned something about how we’re getting up there in years. I also brought up another friend of ours, Tommy, who had a heart attack a few years ago and died on the spot.
“Tommy smoked two packs of cigarettes a day and drank like a fish,” was Nick’s response.
“Yeah I guess it can happen to anyone,” I said.
“You need therapy,” Nick said.
“Have you seen the waiting list to get into a therapist these days?” I asked, “There’s a good chance I’d never make it that long.”
My mother, surprisingly, hasn’t been all that understanding either. She wanted to set up plans for Memorial Day and, just as we were making the final arrangements, I got a little teary eyed. Maybe it was the phrase “final arrangements” that did it. Being a concerned parent my mom asked if I was all right.
“I’m just now realizing how much I’m going to miss all of you when I’m gone,” I said in a blubbering mess.
“You’re 47…” my mother noted giving me on odd look.
Being 82 I can see her point but the comment still hurt.
Fortunately Memorial Day with Mom and beers with Nick aren’t that far off and I’m pretty sure I’ll be around for both events. Of course if the worst were to happen and I manage to drop dead then maybe my friends and family will feel sorry about not taking me, a bit, more seriously. Unfortunately I won’t be around to lord it over them but, I suppose, that’s life.
About the Author
derekbremer Prior to his life as a stay at home father Derek spent more than a decade performing public relations and marketing functions for financial consulting firms and found the job to be precisely as exciting as it sounds. When not tending to his wife or daughter Derek enjoys subjecting the public to his unique take on fatherhood, travel and animal husbandry. He has been published in Scary Mommy, Sammiches and Psych Meds, The Good Men Project, HowToBeADad, Red Tricycle, RAZED, HPP and the Anthology "It's Really Ten Months Special Delivery: A Collection of Stories from Girth to Birth.
