As I Lay Dying

I am stricken. I noticed it last night, there on my right ankle, a little bump and an itching sensation that I knew could only mean one thing - a bug bite. A fatal, insidious, West Nile virus infecting bite that surely will mean the end of my days. And it just seems so unfair. Why now? Why, when I had so much yet to do, so much yet to accomplish. Oh, to be stricken down so young, this cruel poison coursing through my veins, so many questions still unanswered.

I should have known it was coming. Just today I heard an ad on the radio for the local grocery store chain which I knew was some kind of signal that the end was near. "Come in" the ad entreated, "and try our authentic restaurant-style soup." Immediately I was confused. Wasn't it just yesterday that they were trying to sell us their homestyle soup? Why, all of a sudden, did everything change? Is "restaurant -style" better than "homestyle"? How am I to know which to choose? How am I to know what is the right "style" of soup for me?

Oh, the futility of it all. Here I am at the end of my days, the West Nile already robbing me of my vitality and vigor, and I realize that I don't even know what style of soup I am- the old fashioned home cooked goodness of homestyle, or the chic and elegant sophistication of restaurant-style. I know I should have figured this out before, but you see I always thought there would be plenty of time. But now the time is running out.

Oh, woe to him who lives the procrastinated life. So many things left unresolved. I always wondered what the final days would be like and what thoughts would consume me at my final sunset. Would I think of the things I'd done and the women I'd had, or would I think of the things I'd never done and the women I'd never had? Does the old man lying on his deathbed think about the woman he married and shared his life with, or does he think about women who spurned him or perhaps only glanced from afar (like that girl he saw 50 years ago in the school library who never knew he existed and whom he later found out married a uroligist from San Diego).

These would be the things that I'd think of as I lay dying, or so I thought, but instead I find I'm just as confused about life as I ever was. Homestyle or restaurant-style, I don't know, I just don't know.

And just to to make things worse, I come home tonight (pale and sickly, of course) and there is a letter waiting for me in my mailbox. "Dear preferred customer", it starts out, "you have been specially chosen to receive this unique offer..." , and I immediately I put the letter down. With everything else that was happening it more than I could bear. Imagine me, a preferred customer, and specially chosen to boot. To receive such praise from a stranger, and me being such a cad, such an imposter, and so unworthy of such kindness and trust... well, the guilt was too much. I wanted to write these people and tell them "No, it's not right, I cannot deceive you this way", but the virus left has me weak and unable to respond.

So here I sit typing at my computer, my final hour approaching, feeling adrift and burdened by all my past transgressions. I've tried to live a good life, you see, but until that final judgement is passed how can you really know? And how can you know if there'll even be a judgement? How can you know that there won't just be darkeness? And worst of all, what if there is a heaven and your turn comes to answer to the almighty and they can't find your file? What if they can't find your file because you've never really given a good accounting of yourself? What if you find yourself standing in front of St. Peter and he demands "Well, what is it? Homestyle or restaurant-style?" with the difference between salvation and the infernal reaches resting on the answer.

It's too much...too much.