Death

I am 56 years old. I am going to die.

I’m not sick. In fact, I’m active and healthy. I’m not a reckless driver. I haven’t had a premonition of my demise. I don’t really know why it’s been on my mind, but my death has been a mental presence for more than a year.

I read Being Mortal about 18 months ago. I read When Breath Becomes Air about 2 months ago. Were the thoughts there, or did the reading put them there? I have no idea.

Yet I know I am going to die. And so I’ve been thinking about what I can do before then. What I want to do. Whether or not I have the requisite courage to try bold ideas I have, or whether I will settle for meeker paths.

I am smart. Maybe even very smart. I really want to help people be happier, which I think means being healthier. I am curious, and I’m observant. I see what people are, and I don’t begrudge them what they are not. I see things clearly that many other people don’t see at all.

But I’m reluctant to impose, and I think asking anything of anyone is an imposition. I am shy unless I know you. And writing the previous paragraph makes me feel like a self-impressed jerk. Can I do anything but meek?

My questions aren’t about value: I feel conscientious enough that whatever I do I do well enough – or even better than that. I am competent in many things. But I care about relatively few things. So my questions are about how true I can be to my own values. My current skills – and my confidence – don’t align with my ambitions. I tell my children to be brave, to pursue their ambitions, that they will develop the knowledge, skills and experiences that will lead to success in their goals. But I’m 56. With obligations. Do I have time? Do I have energy?

I believe it’s never too late for someone to do something new. Do I believe it’s never too late for me?