83. DeathbedThey always say what you’ll feel when you’re on your deathbed, or what you want to avoid feeling. “Nobody on their deathbed ever wished they’d spent more time at the office” and that sort of thing.

The truth is that nobody, except the extremely morbid, truly imagines they’ll ever be on their own deathbed. Sure, family and friends may pass on — the older you get, the more that particular train builds speed — but you never, in your heart of hearts, think it’ll be you.

Until, of course, it is.

And so, I find myself, on my deathbed. Something changes when it goes from metaphorical to literal. I’m lying in the bed in which, assuming I don’t fall out of at some point, I will breathe my last.

I’m lucky I’m home. My deathbed is the bed I had slept in for years; I just never knew it. Is that ironic? I’m not sure.

The doctors have all signed off, making sure that I and my family had everything I needed for the rest of my life. When the doctors start talking “comfort” instead of “healing,” that’ll get your attention.

Friends — the brave ones, anyway — have stopped by to say good bye, even if they don’t say those words. Family looks suitably stricken. I’d spare my family this if I could. Hell, I’d get up if I could.

And what am I thinking of as the clock winds down?

It’s the feeling of walking out of a movie before it ends.