Soooooo . . . I have a question.  Actually, maybe two or three or ten . . . or more . . .  Side note, if my cousin was present and I started a sentence that way, she’d jump in with “a button on it!”  Just in case you’re ever around her and start a sentence that way.  Now you know what to expect.  But I digress.  As I so often do . . .

Soooooo . . . I have a question, and it’s a tough one, so get ready.

Would you want to know the exact moment you were going to die?

Not necessarily how the event would occur, just when.  Down to the second.  I can see all kinds of pros and cons to such knowledge.  For example—would I react positively by ceasing to procrastinate and starting to prepare in all the usual ways . . . or would it paralyze me with fear so I wasn’t able to enjoy—or at least make the most of—the time I had left?  Knowing the exact moment I was scheduled to leave the planet would probably be the ultimate double-edged sword—the blessing and the curse so often referred to by that great fictional TV detective, Adrian Monk.

Which brings me to another question . . . if you did know, what would you do?  Let’s say you have a year . . . 365 days from today and then poof!  You’re gone.  What would you do?  Would you say, “I’m going to keep working for the next so many months and then I’m gonna quit and enjoy what’s left?”  I’m bettin’ that’s a big ol’ nope.  Would you begin telling the people around you all the things you should have said (the nice things) over the years but just always assumed they knew?  Are there folks you’d find and give an earful because they’ve been such terrible human beings (in your considered opinion) but no one ever had the nerve to tell them? If it was me, I’d certainly sit down with an attorney and make sure all my stuff was in order.  I’d probably bid farewell to the home, although I’m pretty sure there are people who are desperately hoping I’d clean off my desk first and share all the secrets of my job with someone else.   I would definitely start making sure my family knew how much I loved them . . . and I’d have to start writing letters to my kids and grandkids so they’d have my wonderful words of wisdom for all eternity. In writing.  So they can never forget.  There are probably other folks I’d put on the mailing list as well, not for words of wisdom but for words of gratitude.  It’s always nice to let people know they’ve actually made a difference somewhere along the way.

But what if you just had a month?  Does the length of time change your plans?  Would there be a sense of panic because the to-do list was so long and the time so short?  Would it motivate you to hurry up and try all the things you’d always wanted to but never had the nerve . . . like sky-diving for instance?  Another side note, even my upcoming demise would not get me to jump out of a plane unless it’s sitting on the ground.

All of which brings about yet another question . . . what if the person with the expiration date isn’t you but someone you love?  How does that change your plans?  Would you try to spend as much time with them as you could?  Would there be deep conversations about life and hopes and dreams and the coming end to it all?  Or would you try your best to distract them from their future—or lack thereof—and encourage them to fully enjoy what time they had left?  What would you say to them?  What would you do for them?  And the really hard one . . . would their pending departure make you so uncomfortable you would choose to walk away instead of walking the path with them?

Fortunately . . . maybe . . . for most of us our date of departure is a great mystery.  We can live in blissful ignorance with the belief there will always be another day—until there isn’t.  Of course, we can’t all quit our jobs and go skydiving . . . and it’s probably best if we don’t start sharing our real feelings with everyone we’ve ever disliked.  But those other things . . . the nice things . . . the helpful things.  We can do those now.  We can make certain our financial affairs are in order.  We can have the documents in place that will make our passing easier—or at least not any harder—on those we leave behind.  And we can realize that the special people in our lives are deserving of our time and our attention.  They deserve to know how much they mean to us and what a difference they’ve made.

There is so much to be done and so much good we can accomplish . . . if we’ll just quit betting on tomorrow.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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