Today Is The Greatest Day I've Ever Known

Death and dying is a touchy subject for us hoomans.

Doesn't matter if you're 'saved' and will spend eternity with your Lord and Savior, or you don't have a clue about why in the hell we live just to die. The specter of your life ending, no matter what you say or do, is disturbing and unsettling and scary.

That's because unlike literally every other life form on this planet, we're acutely self-aware of our conscious existence and can comprehend that life and living will eventually end and leave us in a state of rigor, desiccation and decomposition.

That's a lovely mental image, innit?

How we spend our final days is a subject of trial and tribulation, especially when we factor in the serendipity of how we live and how quickly and easily life can be taken from us against our will.

People die all around us, every minute of every hour of every day, in every conceivable way.

Old age.... disease... accidents... suicide... addiction... crime... war... pestilence... ignorance... all of these and many more make up Death's Hit Parade.

And of course, our preference is to choose the method by which we'll end up taking the Dirt Nap if we get the chance to do so. Here's mine:

Once I know I'm toast, I will take in hand a previously-acquired heavy dose of deadly narcotic and drive (or be driven) as far up into the mountains as possible. I'll then ingest the heavy narcotic and begin walking into the forest until I lose consciousness and fall over and die. The local animals will rip and tear me to shreds and eat me all up, then they'll shit me out and I'll become compost for the living forest. Maybe they'll be lucky and get a good high from eating my narcotic-infused organs.

Organically Recycled Hooman... not Soylent Green!



BTW, if you've never seen 'Soylent Green', I suggest you do so. Great social dystopian commentary, and it was Edward G. Robinson's last film.

Here's something to ponder: you know those flocks of birds that are everywhere, all around us, every day? Ever wonder why, with so many thousands of birds all around us, every day... why don't we ever see dead birds lying around everywhere too? They have a short life, maybe a couple of years max, so you'd think our streets and lawns and parks would be littered with crow and sparrow and pigeon carcasses.

But no.

We can never know how aware those birds are of their brief lives, but the conventional wisdom is that when birds feel unwell or sick, they find a secluded place to either recover or die. Their small bodies are then eaten up or simply desiccate and decompose where they fell, becoming organic compost.

Sound familiar?

It may be nothing more than ancient instinctual behavior, but it seems to work pretty well for us hoomans with our streets and lawns and parks that aren't covered in bird carcasses.

Same goes for squirrels and possums and lizards and raccoons and coyotes and all the other 'wild' animals that share our suburban habitat. They may not be cognizant of their place in the grand scheme of things, but they know when the time has come to separate themselves from their group and let nature rule.

It's far more complicated for hoomans. For one thing, our bodies are much larger and take longer to naturally desiccate and decompose. And then there's the smell. And the idea of hoomans seeing other hoomans lying there, dead and decomposing, eyes and mouth wide open, belly distended, taunting their mortality.

That's why 'modern' man buries the dead, to hide the stench and remove the carcass from sight or from being et. All the other ceremonial brouhaha over burials is made-up dogmatic baloney to salve our self-awareness of Death's Hit Parade. 



Ancient man used the same instincts as animals when it came time to croak, walking away from the group to expire alone, unseen and un-smelled and ready to be ripped and torn to shreds and eaten up by the local animals, who then shit out the hooman organic compost.

I... I'm sensing a theme here.

The subject of Final Days came to me while watching the coverage of the untimely death of basketball great Kobe Bryant, his daughter Gianna and several friends and associates. Losing their lives in a helicopter crash was an awful way to go since it's highly likely there were several terror-filled minutes experienced by all aboard before plowing into that Calabasas hillside.

On the other hand, Kobe routinely chopper-commuted from his Newport Beach home to points all over the Southern California for (by his own estimation) over 17 years, putting himself at risk every time he strapped in. Yes... driving the freeways is also dangerous and can lead to a fiery death, but it beats falling out of the sky in a malfunctioning or errant aircraft, watching the impending impact with big eyes and a clenched heart.

This is why we'll never have flying cars as personal transport. Crashing while at ground level dramatically increases the chances for survival.

Here's the thing: much has been made of the fact Kobe and Gianna spent their last morning alive together in church, which brings a sense of comfort to those mourning their loss. Father and daughter spent that morning praying to their deity of choice, not anticipating their impending demise.

It got me thinking about the final day I spent with certain loved ones that I've lost over the last 20 years or so.

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My Grandfather Manuel roamed the earth for 94 years until getting hit by a car on one of his daily walks. He survived but was confined to a wheelchair and decided he'd lived long enough and didn't want to be a burden, so he just stopped eating. After a week or so he slipped into unconsciousness, so our family gathered around him on that final night to cry and share memories and be together. We all crammed into his room as he took his last breaths, watching him leave, wanting him to stay but knowing he could not. Although his life's force left his body in front of our eyes, I could swear it entered all of us and we were energized with his love and the force of his nature.

My wife's Grandmother Lila was another force of nature, irascible and thorny and perfectly wonderful because she really liked me and I her. Well into her 80's, she suffered a series of strokes that left her in a nursing home bed, unable to walk or speak. The last time we saw her alive, it was during the holidays so we took her a small green dinosaur plush doll wearing a Santa Cap. She grabbed that thing and held it tight next to her chest, eyes beaming and glistening and showing a giant smile. She knew we loved her a lot. She passed only days later, and we took home one of the gift plants from her memorial that thrives in our living room, huge and green, and we call it Grandma.  I also have the dino doll too!

At only 64 years old, my Mom spent her final day unconscious in a nursing home, having stroked out the night before, the latest in a series of strokes that resulted from a lifetime abusing alcohol and cigarettes. My Aunt Yolanda (Mom's best friend since grade school), my wife and I spent several hours at Mom's bedside that day, reminiscing and laughing and crying and holding her hands and talking to her and feeling lots of love for each other. Mom passed at 11 that night, and I recall the searing reality of loading her wheelchair and few remaining belongings into my truck the next morning, knowing I'd never see her again.

At only 43 years old, my younger Brother Chuck's lifetime of alcohol abuse meant his health was shot... liver failure, infected bloodstream, gangrene... he was a mess. When I got the call he'd been admitted into the hospital again, I raced up to Northern California to see if I could help. There he was in the hospital bed, skin and eyes yellowed with jaundice, ranting that he'd be fine once he got a new liver. He rejected the idea he'd need to stop drinking for at least 6 months before he'd get on a donor list, calling me stupid for saying that even though we both knew it was true. We'd re-established our brotherly bond only a few years before, but this final visit was filled with acrimony and anger, accusation and denial. I left knowing he'd be gone soon... and sure enough, he was.

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I read a sci-fi story once about a doctor who'd secretly invented a machine that could predict exactly how long a person would live. The machine would take blood samples and the results looked like a long pink tube that could be measured in days. He became famous and then infamous, which forced him to go into hiding because the insurance industry had a bounty on his head since his invention would put them out of business. He held them off long enough to get run over by a bus, because he already knew when his time would come and he wanted to keep the machine out of the hands of those who would exploit it.

We don't know how long our conscious existence will last... the length of our pink tube.

We don't know if there's an afterlife or if reincarnation is a thing or if believers will spend eternity with their savior of choice. Anyone that tells you otherwise is lying because they don't really know either.

We know there are many easy ways to extend our own lives by eating better, sleeping better, taking care of our health... stuff like that. However, we don't do those things and so we die much sooner than we need to, even though we know how not to die sooner. Stoopid hoomans.



I like to say that each day above-ground is a great day, a precious gift, a thing of value not to be squandered. It can be a challenge trying to remember that because life can be distracting and mean and venal and heartbreaking. 

The secret is to think about that last day of conscious existence, that final day of breathing and seeing and loving. 

Chances are, we won't know when that day arrives because death can sneak up behind us and snatch our conscious existence right out from under our feet.

So make sure that today and every waking moment is spent doing something that gives you purpose and meaning, no matter how grand or trivial it may seem. Take each day by the scruff of the neck and shake it... HARD.

I like to think that in the final seconds of his life, Kobe knew in his heart he'd done exactly that.

Be like Kobe. Live large, kick ass, take names.

"Razors pain you; 
Rivers are damp:
Acids stain you; 
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful; 
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live."
     -- 'Resume' by Dorothy Parker


Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; 'Soylent Green', 'Monty Python & The Holy Grail', 'Monty Python-The Meaning of Life - Death' and Smashing Pumpkins 'Today' videos, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.