Dance on my grave
Welcome to this week’s Reno News & Review.
I’m trying to figure out how long I’m likely to live. I’ve been searching the internet, and it’s difficult to get very exact. Basically, I’m a male, born 1962, with various health issues—occasional smoking, binge drinking, diet problems, sedentary job, diabetes.
Near as I can tell, the average Caucasian guy my age will live to be 75.6. That’s until you throw in poorly controlled diabetes. That little detail can cut a life span from 30 to 50 percent from the moment of diagnosis, according to unverified internet data.
My sugars have been freaking out lately. Stress, weight gain and lousy sleep patterns have all contributed. Be that as it may, my morning glucose numbers have been as high as 160. I know that number means nothing to most people. But it means something to me, and it’s the very definition of “poorly controlled.”
So, I’m 48.5. If I’m of average luck, that means I’ve got 27.1 years left. But I’ve put my body through the wringer. Assuming I can’t get these blood sugars under control, and if I’m on the worse end of the scale, I’ve got 13.6 years left. That puts me dead right at 62.
So with only an hour before I hit the bar to interview people about smoking, I’m writing my funeral playlist. That Band of Horses song, “The Funeral,” would be great for people to listen to a few minutes before the service, while they wait in the chapel. “Purple Rain” by Prince would be fun for the procession out. And then, there would be the giant toilet flushing sound as my ashes are dispersed. Oh man, “Disaster” by The Besnard Lakes has got to be played, too. This is going to be the longest funeral ever—I’m going to have to provide cocktails.
Plainly, I’ve got my work cut out for me. Thirteen point six years is barely enough for this sort of planning.
Do you think people would get I was kidding if I played “The Wind Beneath My Wings”? I’d better not. This is serious shit. A laugh track might be cool, though.