If I Die Young

I’m happy to report that I’ve never truly had my “life flash before my eyes,” nor have I ever felt regret over the things that I never accomplished in life, and may not get the chance to do.

Sure there was that one time about 10 years ago when my brakes pretty much gave out on my crappy Pontiac while I was driving about 60 on the highway.  All of a sudden the car in front of me jammed on the brakes.  Of course I too immediately jumped on my brakes, but my car did not stop.  Instead I hurtled towards the rear bumper of the car in front of me.  I wound up jerking the car onto the shoulder where I came to a complete stop a full two car lengths ahead of the car that was originally in front of me.  It was a scary situation, and had the shoulder not been available to me I would have clearly impaled my car onto his.  As I was pushing the brake pedal to the floor with both feet all I could think about was not having had sex for two weeks.  I was going to die, and I was pissed that it had been two full weeks since I last had sex.  That’s the thought that flashed before my eyes.

And yeah, there was that time I thought I had gotten trapped in the YMCA steam shower with three naked men.  Turns out the door was just stuck, but seriously there was a real feeling of regret on my end.  Granted it was mostly regret that THIS was how I would be found . . . dead with three hairy naked dudes in a small steam shower at the local YMCA . . . . seriously that’s not good . . . but other than that, not a whole lot of regret and not too many instances of my life flashing before my eyes.

Until recently that is.  The headaches started about a month ago.  At first they weren’t too bad, and I chalked them up to stress.  Some extra strength migraine medicine seemed to help, so I didn’t think much of it.  But then the headaches got worse, and the migraine medicine wasn’t helping anymore.  Then the neck pains started.  Then I started realizing that I was uncontrollably grinding my teeth, and as a result my jaw hurt.  I couldn’t stop.  I actually went out and purchased a football mouth guard.  I’d sit around chewing on it like it was some chew toy.  I wound up chewing a hole right through it.  Everything from my neck up hurt.

My worst fears had finally been realized. . . . my life style had finally caught up to me.  The pizza, and the bacon cheeseburges, and the zebra cakes, and the bagel sandwiches had finally done me in.  I was dying.  So I did what any logical person would do . . . I diagnosed myself with an inoperable brain tumor.  I gave myself six months to live (which really is very disappointing since my “Death Clock” had me dying on November 21, 2044 . . . boy they were off by A LOT).  But no time to wallow in self-pity . . . well no more than usual at least. . . . seriously my hairline is receding, I’m 2-5 on the paddle season, and my wife’s recent raise was as much as my ENTIRE yearly salary . . . trust me there’s some self pity going on even without this brain tumor.

But first up was making sure I had a “support group” of good friends who would look in on my wife and kids from time to time to make sure that they would be okay.  I’ve got a fair amount of life insurance so financially I think my wife is fine (hell I’m worth A LOT MORE dead than alive), but I needed to make sure that after her friends stopped bringing over dinners, and after the sympathy cards stopped coming that she would have a small, but dedicated group of friends checking in on her.  And not female friends.  I know my wife has plenty of those, and no doubt they’d all step up to help her, but I needed some guys checking in to make sure that the “manly stuff” was taken care of.  I need someone making sure the disposal is still working, and that the gutters are cleaned, and that the electrical wiring is up to code . . . okay actually none of those things are good examples, as I don’t do any of that stuff now.  I’m not even sure I know where my fuse box is located.  Haven’t seen it in years.  Wouldn’t know what to do with it if I did see it.  But seriously, I need someone throwing balls to my kids so that they can work on their bat speed, and I need someone taking over my fantasy football team.  And I need someone playing Madden 2012 with the boys.  The important stuff.  I need that taken care of when I’m gone.

So I narrowed it down to four good pals (there were originally five, but one of my good buddies is currently growing opium and distilling his own whiskey in his backyard, so I dropped him from the list), and then sent an email to one of them telling him of my plan and of his impending responsibilities.  After a handful of emails from him with the subject line “You’re a Moron,” I got him to agree to this plan.

Next, I needed to figure out how long I wanted my wife to wait before she hooked up with another man.  After seeing the Tom Hanks’ movie Castaway, we agreed that if I were ever lost (in a plane crash, boating accident, Columbian Drug Cartel kidnapping, WHATEVER) she needed to wait a full five years before she could officially sleep with another man.  Hey, it took Hanks four years to get off that island, and he could sail.  I once lost an R/C boat on a lake after I drove it out of range. I had to jump in and swim after it . . . trust me, I need an extra year.  But I wasn’t sure how long she needed to wait after I had died?  Five years seems too long.  She knows I’m dead.  There’s no search and rescue here.  And yet I need some serious mourning.  Two years.  She can start dating in 18 months, but she needs to wait two full years before sleeping with someone.  If I had to wait six months to sleep with her after we started dating, then SO DOES THE NEXT GUY!

And finally, I needed a second opinion.  Maybe it’s not a brain tumor.  Maybe I jumped to a conclusion without thinking of another realistic possibility.  Brain tumor is worst case scenario.  Best case scenario is something like . . . . let’s see. . . . head hurts, mouth is sore, cold liquids sting my teeth, lower neck is tender, last went to the dentist in ’09 . . . I’m going with root canal.  Why not?  After all my body is a finely tuned machine.  It’s a precise instrument.  A weapon.  I know it like I know the back of my hand.  I can tell you when I’m getting sick a week before the first symptoms show up.  Don’t let the receding hair line, and the ever-expanding gut, and the freakishly short arms, and the pathetic flexibility throw you off.  I’m a freaking spider monkey on crack.

Sure enough, after a quick visit to the dentist, I need a root canal.  The dentist assures me that once I’ve gotten it taken care of I’ll “feel a lot better.”  Most people are devastated to hear they need a root canal.  I was ecstatic.  The woman at the front desk looked at me like I was crazy.  But hey, a root canal is a lot better than brain tumor.

Fantastic.  Now I just need to get my right foot checked out.  Because I’ve either got a stress fracture or foot cancer.  My life’s still not flashing before my eyes . . . but it was close there for a second.