I really should stop reading the death notices in the paper every morning. Sometimes I even check the notices on my hometown newspaper's Web site to see if yet another of my high school classmates has died.
Most days when I check the obits in my local paper, I see one for someone who's my age or younger, a sober reminder that I'm not a kid anymore. On gloomy days -- and we're prone to those around here -- I can get in a real funk about this.
An article in The New York Times last year, written by an oncology nurse, told the gripping story of a patient's death, a death that clearly left its mark on her. The writer, Theresa Brown, concluded with a statement I copied over and printed out in large type so I could tack it up and read it often. It's a marvelous prescription for someone who's fretting about mortality:
"What can one do? Go home, love your children, try not to bicker, eat well, walk in the rain, feel the sun on your face and laugh loud and often, as much as possible, and especially at yourself. Because the only antidote to death is not poetry, or drama, or miracle drugs, or a roomful of technical expertise and good intentions. The antidote to death is life."
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