How Will I Die? There Is A Better Question To Ask

Back in the olden days of print newspaper (remember those?) I would read news, the advice column, a few comics, and then the obituaries.

Call it a macabre fascination, but I would always check to see the age of the dearly departed and their cause of death. From there, I would do a quick comparison. Might I be harboring the same fatal affliction?

My god, this one was only 33 and died from a rare brain tumor. The woman “faced it with courage”. Whatever. She DIED. She is DEAD. D E A D. Bought the farm. Pushing up daisies. Face down, no bubbles.

Dead.

My morning routine would continue. Pour another cuppa. (Splash of half and half please.) It is time to do a quick body scan. How’s that headache? Any blurry vision this morning? Balance issues. Wait! Did my eyelid just twitch? Nah, that’s probably nothing. I’m probably safe. For now.

On to the next obit.

Poor old Hank was 89. A WWII vet. Thank you for your service, sir. And may you rest in power.

The next one was a simple notice of death. Let me just say, I think any obits should be required to disclose age and cause of death. How on earth can my hypochondriac tendencies riff off such a void of information?

My spidey senses got tingly with the next one.

This dude was around my age. Says he loved to fish, hike and spend time with family. His beaming smile was the picture of health. Robust and obviously cared about his dental health.

Sounds like he was a stellar guy. He endured his long illness with grace and dignity; it says.

My anxiety is going up. What the hell did he die from?

I set down my coffee cup

In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to prostate cancer research…

Oh, my god. What if I have prostate cancer?

Oh, Theresa, just shut the hell up. I did this same shit in nursing school.

I will not die of anything schlong related and other than the pesky hair thinning from chemo, I’m even pretty safe from male pattern baldness, which, thankfully, is not life threatening.

Since breast cancer, I’ve upped my how-will-I-die game. I read stories of breast cancer survivors.

There are so many of them. When caught sooner than later, early-stage breast cancer is very treatable and boasts 90% plus survival rates.

But do you think for a minute my lizard brain focuses on that when I’m in a dark frame of mind? Of course not. It’s lights out even before I’m even aware I’ve taken a mental vacation to the land of death and despair.

I mean, HELLLLooooOOOOoooo, I don’t focus on the 28-year survivors. I don’t focus on the woman who is thriving decades after advanced, aggressive breast cancer. (And this was in the “dark ages” of breast cancer treatment to boot.)

Instead, I muse. What stage was their cancer? Did their tumor profile have the same alphabet soup profile mine had? Did they have Luminal A or Luminal B. Mine was the more aggressive Luminol B, you tumor bitch.

I am cheered by the pictures of “cancerversary” celebrations. “Today, I celebrate 10 years being cancer free!” I reply with congratulatory emojis and am genuinely thrilled about their successful outcome.

I love the encouragement. I love reading when breast cancer survivors lived a long and happy and passed away in their sleep after enjoying a steak dinner and brandy. Aged 87.

But of course, not everyone has a happy ending. Breast cancer is still cancer. It’s a tricky son-of-a-bitch and runs the gamut from teeth baring junk-yard dog aggressive to what I had, “slow and lazy”.

The suffering I see women go through weighs on my heart. Especially when I see them holding their young children. The smile on their beautiful faces belies the terror they feel.

What the actual fuck? If this isn’t one for “life ain’t fair” files, I don’t know what qualifies.

The comparison program continues running while I read these things. I make a mental note; I am 58. If I have a reoccurrence 10 years down the road, I’m good. Let’s call it a day.

Set me out in the middle of a Montana prairie with a case of merlot and I’m good. Maybe include a good thermal flask of dark roast should I wake up the next morning. (Then, rinse, lather, repeat.)

Oh people. What the fuck is the matter with me?

I have so many things to celebrate. A prognosis that many, many people would happily trade with me.

I have a new love in my life, Tom. I am free from bras. I am full of ideas and vision and the desire to jump into life. Live simply, love deeply, throw out shit. I am healthy and cancer-free. Eager to get back to Zumba, weight lifting and complaining about idiot drivers.

I must set down the obits, kick catastrophizing to the curb and turn my focus on living.

It’s time to ask, How will I live?

Live simply, love deeply, throw out negative thinking shit.

That great sage, Bob Dylan, said,

“If you’re not busy being born, you’re busy dying.”

Time to get busy being born.

Theresa Winn is a certified life coach and spiritual director. She is busy living and working on her next book, “Bye-Bye Boobs-Breast Cancer, Boobectomies and Badassery”. She loves Zumba, and snackies and is ashamed to admit that she finds it hilarious when people trip. Find her at www.theresalode.com or consider buying me a coffee.

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