Born With An Expiration Date
We are all going to die.
It is something no one can avoid. What makes death so intimidating is that we never know when it’s going to happen. I’m afraid of death as much as everyone else. However, I do have one distinct advantage.
I know the date when I’m going to die.
Let’s go back to the winter of 1984. My friend Phil (and future godfather to my son Alexander) had a Christmas party. Most of the guests were his work friends, so I didn’t know a lot of the people there.
I did, however, recognize the Christmas tree in the corner.
With a drink in hand, I went over to talk to the tree. As Phil worked the room, he made his way over to me. I stood near the tree and feigned interest in one of his childhood homemade ornaments. It read, “Merry X-Mas,” spelled out in macaroni glued to an inverted plastic cup, painted white and covered in sparkles.
Phil stared at me as I stared at the ornament.
He asked, “What are you thinking about?”
For reasons that baffle me to this very day, I replied, “I’m going to die on August eighth.”
Phil looked at me. He nodded his head in agreement as if he knew something that I did not.
He then turned and continued his role as dutiful host.
Up until that moment, August 8th had no significance whatsoever in my life. After that moment, it became a part of me.
Every August 8th brought me back to Phil’s Christmas party, like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
Over the years, my family and friends learned of my prediction about the day I was going to die.
I am often asked, “What year?”
I have no idea.
As if predicting the actual date of my death wasn’t good enough. I had to provide all the details (people are so lazy). This led to speculation about what year would look best on my tombstone.
When 1988 rolled around, fingers were crossed (not mine) that it would be the year.
“How cool would that look on a tombstone,” several people said.
8-8-88
I guess if you’re going to die, you might as well make it look good. But that day came and passed, hopefully to the disappointment of my friends. I couldn’t take it personally that so many people rooted for my death.
After all, I opened that door in the first place.
On the other hand, I was flattered that so many people wanted my tombstone to look cool.
My next opportunity for the cool tombstone came in 2008. That day came and went without incident. I will not be around when that next opportunity (3008, 3088) arises for that very cool tombstone.
I do have the opportunity to have a semi-cool tombstone headline in 2028. In many ways, I’m surprised to be at a point where I can even have a semi-cool tombstone. Until recently, I didn’t exactly exercise, eat right, or take care of myself (my blog is called Conflict and Scotch for a reason).
The list of things that could go wrong grows longer as I get older.
My high blood pressure is under control the same way a lion tied to a tree with twine is under control.
I once had a blood clot travel to my eye. If it had gone to my brain, it would have killed me.
Unless it happened on August 8th. Then it would have been cool.
Also, I’m about to celebrate the eighth anniversary of that mysterious pain that lives under my rib cage.
(mysterious pains are so hard to shop for)
Before I hit fifty, those morbid inquiries about my demise were most definitely tongue-in-cheek.
Now, in my sixties, the calls I receive are more genuine than juvenile.
On August 8th of any given year, I get phone calls from people. They say things like, “Just checking in,” or ask how I am feeling.
Some sound genuinely disappointed when I actually answer my phone.
“Oh, so you’re still alive?”
So here we are. Once again, the calendar has landed on my death day.
Will I live or will I die?
Feel free to join in on this mortality game of Groundhog Day. Be sure to check back on August 9th to find out the results.
Will Al die, or will there be three hundred sixty-five more days of Al (three hundred sixty-six more days of Al during leap years)?
And, if I don’t die...
...see you again next year.
