If Today was Your Last Day

I've always thought that it would be best if we were born with expiration dates stamped on our butts. Like plastic jugs of milk. Like bottles of orange juice and beer. Like lunch meat.

I'm not sure if that would take the guessing game of death to a better or worse level. Right? If I knew the exact date of my death, would that change anything for me? Would it make me appreciate life more? Would it make me say the things that are on my mind or would I continue to keep most thoughts hidden?

I've had episodes that I'd call "bushes with fate." There have been a few times when I was flying on business trips, and I was certain that the plane was going to crash. Turbulence that was so severe, I was repeating prayers over and over in my mind.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven..."

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."

When I was in grade school, I ran, chest first, into an aluminum bench. It knocked me down, flat on my back. I lost my wind.

I may not have been in any immediate danger with either of these examples, but the incidents made me think about the fragility of life. Even at a young age, I thought about my death. I'd pace in circles for what seemed like hours, thinking about death. Thinking about dying. Thinking about blackness and never seeing my family again.

I've even been present when three of my family members died. I was with them the exact moment they took their last breath. Watched as their color turned to yellow and then white. Literally. Their souls leaving their bodies, destined for their own chosen afterlife.

But none of these times, or any others, have made me do anything differently. I know I am going to die someday. I know eating pizza for dinner isn't good for me. I know drinking too many beers can speed up the aging process. But that double burger with cheese and french fries taste good. Isn't that reason enough to enjoy life?

The end is eminent. It's written in stone, so to speak. The moment I was born, my moment of death is known.

My father died on May 17, 2007. It was his fate. We had no way of knowing he was going to die that day. We had no way of knowing that when we took him to the hospital on a Sunday evening, that he would never make it home again. That he would die a mere six weeks later, in a hospital bed two miles from my house. The same hospital where Lily was born. The same hospital where I stayed at for three days because I broke a blood vessel in my left eye.

I think about my dad each time I drive past it. I don't think about his life, I remember his death.

I guess I've been contemplating this more today because of a song. A song. Words written by a guy named Chad Kroeger from a group called Nickelback. I guess this is the response he wants from his lyric. He wants people to contemplate their lives. He wants them to think about the words he wrote, the words he sings. That's what artists want. Response to their effort.

I'm responding.