Another Awful Question

One Deadline that Doesn’t Drive Me

Because I don’t even want to know

“If you found out you were going to die in 3 months, how would you spend your time? What would you do?” Again, this is the wrong question. A better question: “If you were going to die in 3 months, would you want to know?”

I don’t think I would.

If I knew, today, that I had only 3 months to live, the first thing I’d do is freeze like a deer caught in the headlights. I would go to a very dark, morbid place. And then, once reality really sank in, I’d be convinced of the futility of everything. I’m not afraid of dying; I’m just afraid of knowing exactly how finite my time is. It limits my choices. It’s one deadline I don’t want.

I’d want to spend time with family, but I don’t want to say long, poignant goodbyes. I want to spend time with them now, fully alive, with the energy and enthusiasm they deserve. I might travel, but I’d rather travel now, fully alive, knowing that we will all die one day — maybe tomorrow, maybe decades from now — but I don’t think I’d want to be robbed of the element of surprise. I don’t want to die depressed; let me die when I’m joyful and still wanting more. Or let me die contented and pain-free. In my sleep, preferably.

Unlike Edgar Allan Poe, I do not loathe “those little slices of death.” I think of sleep as a glimpse into alternate timelines or an infinite universe of possibilities. I’d rather fall into a dream without waking, in the hope that it leads to the next great adventure, than to go like a Viking, bravely, in battle. I do not like pain. Let me go gentle into that good night…

But not for another forty years, please!