Chris Jepson: More and more I'm less and less

I became “more” aware of that most human of conditions—of loss—one beautiful fall morning of 1987. While driving to work I noticed my eyesight—seemingly overnight—changed ever-so slightly. It was during this time that I also gained 5 pounds out-of-the-blue. I was 38 years old. Up to that point in my life, I had experienced no diminution in my physical being. Sigh. It was only, as we all now understand, just the start.

To be alive is to be aware. And one’s death is definitely part of that awareness. Some find it macabre to talk of such things, but I disagree. Religion, politics, sex and death are recommended as to be avoided in conversation. Why is that? If your “thinking” cannot withstand a challenge, give more thought to exactly why that is. Intelligent conversation, ideally, enlarges one’s perspective.

Mortality is a topic that most avoid. I determined at a young age (8) that none of us get out alive. The only issue is timing. I was 21 at the time I started doing estimations of my life expectancy and based on family history came up with the benchmark of 83; that I could realistically expect to live healthily up to age 83 and then the inevitable smack down of death. I am as comfortable with that guesstimate today as I was 45 years ago.

Granted, dying is a disappointment. But it is the one windmill in “life” that tilting against is futile. I think death (and life’s senseless mayhem/misery) the “main” explanation for religion (plus creation myths). The wonder (and fear) of the inexplicable. We have this delightful consciousness and then—whooosh!—we’re gone. “This can not be it,” we lament and out of that came religion and its “sweet” promise of life on the other side of the veil. Rationally I’ve never considered life after death, but I understand why many do.

How one dies should reflect how one lived. I’ve determined there are two optimum (ideal) ways to go. You are vital to the day you die and death is relatively abrupt. One day, one thing (life), the next the other (death). The other way is what I expect for myself. Life and the inexorable course that it takes, with its toll of small physical insults (the surgeries, etc.), that regardless of all “that,” life remains the grand adventure, which there is no question but that life remains worth living.

I do not entirely understand the need for assisted suicide laws. When my moment comes I seek no government input on when and how I chose to go. As Dear Abby (Ann Landers) so succinctly put it, “MYOB.” Indeed.

I’ve told my wife I want everyone who shows up at my funeral to get a crisp $50 bill. She says no way. We laugh. I occasionally give thought to the music I want played. I’ve begun a playlist of 10 great songs (compositions). “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by Iz for sure. Food is an important aspect in my life and a final feast is in harmony with how I live. Perhaps I’ll record a final toast (to life) and there will, of course, be magnums of champagne. Pass out the $50s now, Dear.

Out there, beyond the horizon, at some “unknown” hour death awaits us all. So be it. As Montaigne desired, “I want death to find me planting cabbages.” Yes.

Oh, and 80 is the new old.