On the radio yesterday, I heard of another person dying. Can’t remember who it was. Someone known, obviously. He was 92. This news always goes through me like a cold knife. The sun is shining; I’m driving down the street to meet a friend for lunch; all is well. And the knife makes its entry, cold and clean, right through the gut.
And then, here it comes. The thought. I have, if I’m lucky, 25 years to live. And I think I’ll be pretty strong and cogent right up to the end, so I’m sticking with that figure. That’s a long time on one hand. Not so much on the other. But it’s enough to make a change.
Can I turn this life around? Am I doing exactly what I want to be doing? Am I living exactly the way I want to be living?