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.