The Old Blog in the Desert

I paid a visit to the doctor the other day, which is always a hazardous undertaking for a man who has previously considered himself reasonably alive. The doctor studied his instruments, looked me over with the solemn interest of a tax assessor, and finally announced that I am, in his professional judgment, “a walking stroke.”

Those were his exact words. I would not have chosen them myself, as they lack cheer.

It is the same condition that carried off my father, which did not improve the tone of the conversation. By the end of the visit, he had supplied me with two more medications designed to quiet the uprising in my blood vessels, along with follow-up appointments that will keep both of us acquainted for the foreseeable future.

Now, I do not intend to perish immediately, at least it is not on my calendar, but the doctor has made it plain that a fellow in my condition ought to keep his affairs in some order. So I will say this much.

Should it happen, if I depart between one appointment and the next, I expect I shall miss you terribly. That is the principal inconvenience of dying: the leaving of people you would just as soon keep.

Still, I cannot complain about the life behind me. I have lived a stretch of years that certain observers claim equals the adventures of ten ordinary men, and I suspect they may be right. It has been a crowded and remarkable ride, and I have enjoyed most of it, sometimes even the parts that tried to kill me.

As for the business of crossing over to whatever lies beyond the curtain, I hold no particular dread about it. The universe has managed its affairs a long while without consulting me, and I suppose it will continue to do so.

My only regret in the matter is a simple one: that if I step through that door first, I will no longer see your face or hear your voice on this side of the veil. And that, I believe, will be the only real loss worth mentioning.