The Last Exit

The subject of death has been popping up a lot lately. Good or bad, it's on my mind for several reasons.

Last August, a close friend of mine died. He was very ill and many miles away for his final days, so the last times I remember him being around and having fun were Pride weekend and 4th of July. He was the first member of my chosen family that I've lost, and I think this time of year will always bring him to mind.

Even worse, a spambot wormed into his old e-mail account a few weeks ago. It's unsettling to receive advertisements from your friend's Yahoo address nearly a year after he went to the grave.

In the midst of all this, a book called The Deathday Letter came out, and I read it immediately. I discovered it because it was written by my Gay Husband's brother (making him my gay-brother-in-law? brother-in-gay? erm, no, let's just skip the title). I don't do reviews, and I'd just sound biased anyway, but I liked it, and you should buy it. In a funny and meaningful way, it deals with the age-old question of What would you do if you knew you had 24 hours to live?

I hate that question, because I don't live in Shaun Hutchinson's fictional world where you get advance notice of your impending death. I'd only ever know I was on my life's last day if I was so fatally ill that I wouldn't have the strength to go sit on the beach, or throw a last hurrah at Wrigley Field. In fact, I bet I won't even have 24 seconds of warning, forget 24 hours.

So lately, with death on my mind, I've been looking at the question differently: If the last 24 hours I just lived were my very last 24 hours, would I be okay with that?

The answer varies. Yesterday, I'd probably say yes. The day before? Not so much. The lesson I'm learning is that if I say no for most of the days of my life, then I'm not doing it right.

Ask yourself the same question every night before bed. It's illuminating, I can assure you.