The Art of Dying Well

    So here I am laying in a hospital gown that is pretty ridiculous as it is so big I could wiggle through the neck opening like a street contortionist wiggles through a cardboard box.  I am having my twelfth ECHO with my buddy James, and I am excited as its only taking five minutes.  I suppose that is the service I get once you become a regular.  He stops plugging in the numbers on the machine, looks down at the floor, and says, "Thank you for your outlook on life."  I am thinking, What the heck was I rambling on about?  Wasn't I whining about my kindergartner having a full blown tantrum on the way to school?  No, we were talking about our seven year olds, we both have one, and their silly ways they innovated to jump off the diving board?  Well, anyway, he proceeds to tell me that he has a genetic disorder with his heart and no one in his family has lived past 40.  He is 35.  Here is this father of three who is finding some sort of motivate attitude in my useless rambling.  Yes, I know I ramble.  So here we are crying.  Wait, I think I was the only one crying.  Maybe I never really stopped crying from the stress of carrying a 40 pound, biting, crying, screaming, boy I love so dearly to school so I can get his sister to school on time, ordeal.  We are talking about the fact that it is highly likely we will both die in the next five years, and we are, like, okay with being dead.  But, we fear how that makes those around us feel, especially our children.  So here we are thanking each other for something hugely profound and taboo and all and all crappy to think about. 
     "We Humans have lost the art of dying well.  That is all I ask.  I want to live well to die well.  And, I am so thankful I had kids before I jumped out of an airplane and had to decide whether I really would pull the parachute cord or not."
     Yes, folks, we are all going to die.  Some of us hear our time clocks clicking just a little too close to zero.  So make the best of it.  Stop complaining.  Make a change.  Teach, teach some more, and learn a ton so you can teach that too.  Live it well.  And know that THAT is exactly how I do it.  Yes, you ask me all the time how I do it.  That is it...I want to live it all all at the same time and do it well.  That is how I coach soccer to five year olds in flip flops on damp grass for thirty minutes when the coach is so very, very late for his team.  That is how I spontaneously turn a trip to Chick-Fil-A after soccer practice into girl's night out, and one guy, even when our kids are so tired they are stumbling and crying out the door.  I want to be super-mom, uber-awesome-artist, and that funny girl you just met that still looks hot in boot cut jeans with her purple toe nails even though she has this constant rash on her face, her finger nails are nearly all ripped off, and has stretchmarks around her waist that is just a little flabby even though she can hula hoop longer then a seven year old.  Yep, don't just sit on the side lines, join the game because your clock is ticking too.  Live it, live it well, even when you feel like you are going to go insane.  But, shhh..., here is the real secret: sleep.  Don't forget to sleep well too because there will be tomorrow.  Yes, there WILL.
    James, I toast to your 40th birthday party, and it better be the biggest damn party anyone ever saw.  I know mine will be (hint hint hint...and there better be dancing).  Here's to freakin' living to forty.  No fifty.  Here is a toast to being grandparents and tossing out the bucket list so we can spend a little more energy being present in what is exactly right here at this very moment.  Here is to the art of living well to die well.  Just one day at a time.  One day at a time.  And, James, you betcha I will see you every three to four months for a super long time as I have a whole lot of lifetime still ahead.  So do you.