We can’t control timing of death, just what we do as we’re waiting

By David McElroy · September 7, 2014

Three stories caught my eye in rapid succession Saturday night. They were all three about deaths of people I didn’t know, but they left me with an uneasy feeling that I’m not really living my life. Maybe I’m just sitting around waiting to die.

The first was about a victim of the serial killer Jack the Ripper. Although she’s been dead for 126 years, I saw a picture of a man with the blue and brown shawl she was supposedly wearing when she died.

The next story was about a theatrical actress in Chicago who was killed Saturday when a falling tree struck her as she rode her bike. I don’t know anything about the woman, but her piercing eyes stared at me from the picture.

The last of the three stories was about a 34-year-old mother of two in Chicago who was killed this week when a stone gargoyle fell off an old church and hit her as she walked by. She was on her way to have lunch with her fiancé, who was the mother of her children.

None of these women realized she was about to die. One was unexpectedly murdered. The other two were victims of what could only be considered freak accidents. Seeing their stories in rapid succession like that made me think about the rest of us, including myself.

I have no idea when I’m going to die. I honestly believe I’ll be here for many years to come. Maybe it’s simple denial, but I’ve always thought I’d be one of those freaks who lives until 120 or something. But I have no way of knowing.

I could die in my sleep tonight. I could be struck by a car while I’m on a routine trip to get lunch next Tuesday. I could have a heart attack next week — or next month or next year — while I’m working. I have no way of knowing.

Death is waiting for me and will take me whether I’m ready or not. So why do I still act like a teen-ager who thinks he’s going to live forever? Why do I spend time on things that don’t matter to me — instead of making the time I have count?

What did I do Saturday? I watched a football game. (It was boring.) I slept late since I stayed up Friday night for absolutely no reason. I even napped a little Saturday afternoon. I spent a lot of time browsing Facebook, Reddit and other websites. I listened to some music. I sat in a restaurant for a few hours and browsed online. I chatted with a few people, but I neither said nor heard anything of consequence.

For the most part, I wasted a day. The only thing I can think of that made me happy and felt important was when I shot pictures of sunset. (It was a beautiful sunset. Here’s one of my pictures.)

When I die — whether it’s next week or 50 years from now — nothing I did today other than that one beautiful picture will matter to me. And that’s been the case for far too many days over the last five or six years.

The late Steve Jobs told a story in his 2005 Stanford University commencement speech that has stayed with me. (The speech is only about 15 minutes. I highly recommend the entire thing.) He said that every morning when he got up, he asked himself whether he was going to spend that day doing the things he would want to be doing if it were his last day on earth. He said if he had too many days in a row when he wasn’t doing what he would want to be doing if it were his last, he knew he needed to make changes.

I wouldn’t want what I did today to be my last day on earth. It’s been quite a long time since I’ve had a day that I felt that way about. Depending on which standard I used, I’d have to go back at least several years, maybe six or seven years.

The things that really matter to me are love and connection with another person and creating beauty in various forms. Other things matter, too, such as books and ideas and movies, but only when they’re supporting love and beauty in some way.

If I were to die right now and death were taking me away, I would ask myself why I wasted so much time reading other people’s arguments on Facebook. I’d wonder why I worried about other people being wrong. I would ask myself why I didn’t understand love and other people early enough to accept a woman who wanted to love me. I’d ask myself why I didn’t find someone who still did want to love me — someone who wanted to have children and create beauty and life together.

And I wouldn’t have good answers for myself.

I’m not ready to die. Not only do I simply fear my lack of adequate understanding of the entire process, but I haven’t done the things that will have made my life worthwhile. I’ve spent too many days and weeks and months and years stuck in idle.

I need to love and be loved. I need to understand a woman and have her understand me. I need to have children to love and nurture. I need to create beautiful things. I need to write things that might influence people and give them hope that their lives can be worthwhile. I need to find ways to change my corner of the world.

I need to live. Too much of what I’ve been doing is simply waiting to die.

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The company that owns Facebook and Instagram is heavily promoting its new AI-based software assistant called Muse, but people who are using it as it was designed are incredibly foolish. An early adopter of the software discovered that a few days ago when he advertised an item for sale on Facebook Marketplace — and he inadvertently gave Muse full authority to act on his behalf. The software agreed to a lowball offer made by another Facebook user and then gave that man the home address of the man for whom he was an agent. The software told the buyer that the seller was home and waiting for him. When the buyer showed up and waited angrily, the would-be buyer left an angry review for the man. And this angry man had the seller’s home address. It was only well after that that the software reported what it had done and admitted it had made a mistake. I won’t be putting that much power into the hands of any software. I think anyone who agrees to such terms is a fool. And the software’s user agreement says you’re responsible for purchases the software makes in your name. Nope.

Meet my new girlfriend. Her name is Meg. And she’s my little sweetheart. A couple of months ago, a neighbor across the street told me about a new stray in the neighborhood that she and I were both soon feeding. The cat had been very skittish about contact and she had a lot of scabs and parasites in her fur, but a trip to the vet last week revealed that she was otherwise in good health. The vet estimates her to be 1 to 2 years old. I named her for Meg Murry, the 13-year-old protagonist of Madeleine L’Engle’s wonderful book, “A Wrinkle in Time.” (Please read the book. Don’t watch the horrible movie.) Since we lost Lucy almost a year ago, it seems appropriate that we finally have a new little girl to join the household. She’s already captured my heart, but Alex, Oliver and Sam aren’t there quite yet.

There’s nothing socially acceptable that’s as dangerous as drinking alcohol. Most people grow up being told to “drink responsibly” — and all of us see people abusing this drug in one way or another — but the truth is that drinking alcohol is always a terrible risk. The alcohol in these drinks is toxic and the human liver has to work hard to filter the toxins out. What most people don’t realize is that alcohol is classified as a known carcinogen by the World Health Organization — because of the well-established connection between imbibing and various cancers. Many people have taken refuge behind the idea that light or moderate drinking might be safe, but a new study shows that drinking even one drink a day increases the risks of 10 types of cancer. When I was a teen-ager, I looked around and saw the negative effects that this behavior had on a lot of people and decided not to start drinking, so I’ve never even tried this poison. The evidence keeps piling up that I was lucky to have come to that conclusion early.

It turns out that the radical far left has been training “Antifa cats” to sabotage anything important to Donald Trump. Everything he did was perfect. Honest. It was all the cats’ fault. Arrest all the cats! This is the latest of my ridiculous satirical shorts. Please go watch it. Then “like” it and subscribe. Please. I’m begging you. (Too much?) Although a couple of the previous videos have had views in the hundreds, most have still been seen by fewer than 20 people. So I seem to be having trouble letting people know that page exists.

Here’s the latest of my ridiculous parody shorts. It crossed my mind Tuesday to wonder what a slick and fast-talking car dealer might do right now to try to turn the high price of gasoline to his advantage. So I conceived of a fat and lovable character who tried to sell cars that don’t use any fuel — and then I started wondering if it would be funnier if all the characters were felines. Designing the King Cashpaw character took about four hours, but the rest took only another four hours, so this was a relatively quick piece that virtually wrote itself. I know it’s almost impossible for these parody videos to find a larger audience, but at least they amuse me — and there are 19 of them on my YouTube page now. The first few were very limited, but they’re getting more complex.

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