What a dumb way to die

Sometimes I wonder how much one’s sense of their own mortality is related to the fates of those closest to them. I think we all know someone who had a parent or both parents die at young ages due to health problems that were related to hard living, poor choices, and/or bad habits and then the grown child, who has the opportunity to do something different and not repeat the mistake, seems to instead tempt fate with self-destructive behaviors and habits. Come to think of it, sadly, I could name 3 people without even thinking about it too hard.
In my own case, I grew up around some unhealthy folks with some unhealthy habits, and some died young, and some lived to be a solid age but spent half their lives feeling like they were going to die.  I am someone who, when asked about family history by doctors, have always said, “Well, yeah, there are a lot of strokes and diabetes and heart disease in my family, but I…” and then go on to explain why I’m not at risk due to my vastly different habits. But. When I really think about life and death and my own future, the truth is I do believe I could be impacted by some of the young deaths in my family… only not by elements that are, to some degree anyway, within my control… i.e., In my mind, although I know it’s still possible, I will not die of lung cancer because I’ve never even experimented with a cigarette. I will not die of a heart attack, because I am conscious of and intentional about preventing the scenario that would predispose me to it. Etc. Etc. Now, also in my mind, very possible causes of death for me include, but are not limited to, death by a bad guy, a car accident, some rare, genetic disease or cancer, or, and this is the most likely scenario: a straight up accident, like I accidentally turn and step off the edge of a building because I wasn’t paying attention. However I die, I’m dead set that it’s going to be something dumb that kills me.
I, who pictured myself as an adult (translation: 18 years old; isn’t that cute?) my entire childhood, cannot picture myself as an elderly person. I talk a lot about the things I HOPE for and would LOVE to happen, like living to be a healthy, active 100 year old, but I really can’t make it out in my mind. In fact, my relationship with my mortality is such that I have always thought that around some unexpected corner awaits my end… and I feel like, for most of my adult life, I have peered around each corner carefully lest THIS be THE ONE, in an effort to trick my destiny into giving me more time. And it’s not that I’m obsessed or paranoid; I just have a certain acceptance that this is my fate. While I love the idea of Jose and I holding our hands and dying in our sleep together when we are in our 90’s or 100’s - The Notebook style, I think I’m actually going to fall down some concrete steps because my flip-flops meet a drop of water on a staircase step from a small leak in the ceiling of whichever building I’m in (flip flops are slippery mofo’s when they meet a wet, concrete, marble, or tiled floor, let me tell you), and that’ll be it. Now, to clarify, I really, really, really hope none of these freak accidents happen, because, aside from the fact that I love life, I have promised my boys I will live a long life, and I also very much want to be the grandma I’m currently preparing to be. But, as morbid as it is…
A lot of times when I have heard of someone dying, and the circumstances are kind of different, I find myself imagining what writing the obituary was like or how close family and friends explain it to people who ask, “What happened? How did so& so pass?” And then I’m taken back to that time I thought I was going to die from the really long stringy cheese that was hanging down my throat from the slice of pizza I was eating. Too embarrassed to let anyone know I was choking, but with no ability to get the cheese, which was clinging to one molar on one end and many inches of it hanging down my throat, out of my windpipe. I nearly passed out from lack of oxygen when I was finally able to get it off my molar and pull it back up my throat like a bucket at the end of a rope in a well. I mean, what a dumb way to die, right? I know I’ll never have to worry about dying because an ATM I was trying to rob fell on me, because I can’t think of any circumstances where I would be breaking into an ATM, but I *could* see myself climbing a vending machine and being crushed by it when it overturns. How do you explain THAT ONE when people who are genuinely concerned and sad about your death ask about the reason for your demise? “Well, it all started with this bag of cheetos that got stuck on the metal spiral thing… and, sure it was $2 in the whole scheme of life, but it was the principle of the thing, and Gina was nothing if not principled.”
This morning I took our dog outside to go potty… and I should preface by explaining that this dog is such a jerk that he can’t even be trusted to go outside like a normal dog to do his business in private. The second he goes out, he immediately runs to the fence and starts digging like it’s his job so he can squeeze and wrangle himself under it and then run around our neighbor’s backyard, slapping at their glass door to let their dog know he’s out there. This is usually when I text my neighbor and remind her how much I can't stand Max and that, oh, by the way, someone is on their way over to fetch him, so don't call the cops when you see someone in your backyard. So someone always has to put the leash on Max, take him out back and walk around for many minutes until he finds just the right place to poop. Well, THIS MORNING, we had a monsoon with an impressive lightning show and loud, cracking thunder overhead, and, as I stood out there blinded by lightning strikes that felt creepy-close, I thought to myself, “Well, this is it. This is IT. THIS is it. What I’ve always waited for and knew what coming… The embarrassing, stupid way to die that was my destiny. I didn’t get run over by a car, I didn’t accidentally drive off the side of a mountain, I didn’t drown (despite several “almosts” over the years), and I wasn’t a victim of any deadly crime. Nope. The story people tell about me will start with, “Well, she was standing at the end of an 8’ leash holding her breath while the dog she could barely stand made not 1, not 2, but 3 piles of poop with threatening weather overhead and her willing him to just pinch it off already, when, all of a sudden, a lightning bolt came straight down out of the sky, and hit her and the fence post. And that was it. She was a goner.” Or, simply, “She died holding the leash of a pooping dog.” And on that note…
The boys call cemeteries “rips”, because they have seen RIP on many a tombstone and don’t realize it’s an acronym. So I was picturing people driving past my rip, (and, by the way, if this happens, then someone didn’t honor my wishes to donate everything and then cremate the rest of me, put me in a pretty, dark brown stained, hand-scraped wooden box, and set me on Jose’s nightstand for the rest of his days, the wishes of any future wife be damned, because I was here first - ahem, Jose), and when these people drive past my rip, I imagine them saying, “Oh, that’s where that Gina Rendon is buried… did you know she was hit by lightning while her dog was taking a dump? What a dumb way to die.” 

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