Some Say The World Will End in Fire

Whether we share them aloud or not, we all have theories about how we will leave this world.

I’ve often thought I would be a good candidate for dying in my sleep (my preferred method) since the older I get, the more time I spend in bed. Recently, my husband and I have become rather like the grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory — always horizontal, in a creaky old bed with the covers pulled up to our chins. The mathematical odds are that I will be in that position when I go.

But today another thought occurred to me.

 After a four-month stint of having my daughter and her family (a very large husband and two very small boys) staying with us, I am finally regaining my own house and personal space— both physically and mentally.

I loved having their family with us, but I found myself frequently running to the bathroom simply to “have a moment” alone. Legos, scooters, bicycles, helmets, baby bouncers, highchairs, pacifiers, strollers, playdough extruders, white noise machines, and innumerable other baby and four-year-old paraphernalia overtook the house, room by room, until the only spot where I could guarantee a safe place to set anything down was on my hastily made bed, or on a good day, perhaps my bedside table. 

My former workspace in the “rec room” (aka the ‘‘wreck room”) was given over to washable markers, wooden puzzles, dried fish food, my husband’s bags of pumpkin and zinnia seeds, and half-opened Kiwi Crates. My own legal pads, writing notebooks and datebook were scattered, with reckless abandon, to the wind.

I soon became disoriented. Without my datebook I didn’t know what day it was or where I was supposed to be. I know, I know. I should use the calendar on my phone. Although I am competent with my phone for almost everything else— I’ve managed to plug in birthday reminders that ding at the most inconvenient  of moments— I am not totally tech-savvy. And spending five minutes to insert a doctor’s appointment into my phone seems silly when the office will call to remind me of my appointment the day before. 

As a person who has socks older than the bag boys at the grocery, I simply prefer a physical, paper calendar. Despite my lack of activity during the pandemic, I’m certain I bought one for 2022. I used to keep it open, by my laptop, in my workspace. But when my kids were living here, the dang thing went missing. I became so socially inept that I lost friends in the process, my teeth yellowed, and my hair became a fright. I kept having the feeling I was missing something- and I was! Appointments for mammograms, dental cleanings, hair highlights — even free birthday ice cream cones— went unheeded. 

Now that the kids are finally in their own place, I’m back! I soon located my datebook sandwiched between some back issues of The Funny Times with six more good weeks left in 2022.

Before I could place the datebook in its proper place, I had to reclaim my workspace. I own a lovely desk, but It has mostly become a final resting place for stained coffee mugs, unpaid bills and mismatched socks. The place where I prefer to work—my former sanctuary for writing—is  the ping pong table. Where I can spread out. The toys that had taken over the tabletop have mostly followed their owners to their new home. But the markers and Playdoh were still there. I relocated them to a closet, recycled the unread magazines, and tossed the mandarin orange peels. Progress!

A search of the entire house resulted in the retrieval of 22 of my precious yellow legal pads, each one containing scribbled sheets of ideas, thoughts, or important things to do. I started tearing off page after page of grocery lists, to do’s that never got done, addresses, links to websites I should have read months ago. 

When my husband popped in and saw me finally working at the ping pong table again, he flipped on the ceiling fan for some fresh air. Yellow-lined pages flew up off the table and circled my head, obscuring my vision except for a strange, clear light that called to me from beyond.

 I had an epiphany of sorts, before yelling at my husband to flip off the fan. I now knew that my death would not come by fire, or ice. I will not have the good fortune of going gentle into this goodnight. 

 I no longer believe that my pillow will be my final resting place. No, it is now clear now that my own yellow legal pads will take me out. I’ll blubber, choke and gag as I am swallowed by a heap of my own to-do-lists, illegible notes and scribbled writing thoughts and ideas.

 After this realization did I come to fear yellow legal pads? No, strangely, I found their presence comforting. They showed that I am striving, maybe never getting anywhere, but striving. I’m moving forward with courage.

Still, this epiphany did bring change, as all good epiphanies do. I gave my own inertia a swift kick, hopped into the car, drove to the office supply store and purchased a set of colored legal pads— sunshine yellow, powder blue, salmon pink, and mint green. If I’m destined to “go out” under a mound of my old paperwork, and walk towards the light while surrounded by a heap of my own detritus, I want the paper swirling down on me to sparkle with the colors of the rainbow. I’ve always believed that positive change begins with a ballpoint pen and a lined, legal pad. So if death is a new beginning, this makes all the sense in the world. See you on the other side.