I’m Dying

I went to the doctor for a check-up. He said I was perfectly healthy. Well, I knew better.

“C’mon doc,” I said. “No more sugar-coating. Give it to me straight. How much longer have I got?”

He replied, “If you keep taking care of yourself, you’ll most likely be around for another 30 years or so.”

How depressing. I’m dying. I always suspected I was. Now I knew for sure, from an expert. I walked out of his office, and suddenly, all my priorities shifted. I felt a need to say “I love you” to strangers. I felt a need to suck more life out of life. I felt a need to hurry up, and slow down, at the same time.

I eat approximately 1000 meals per year. Which means, according to my doctor, I only have 30,000 meals to look forward to before I die and my remains are placed in a dropbox and carried away by security to the great casino cage in the sky.

What if I knew that my next supper was my last? Or my next bite? Or my next chew? Would that change the flavor of a tomato? Let’s do some round numbers — 30,000 meals times 50 bites per meal times 10 chews per bite equals 15 million chews. Okay, that does it. My chews are numbered. I can’t be hanging around here. I need to finish up this post and go have breakfast. And when I do, I will re-resolve to pay attention to every last bite as if every bite was the last.