Maybe I won't make it to 2035. Oh shit. Please call Sofia.

The original and continuing premise of this blog was that I'd die in 2035, at the "ripe old age" of 89. Now I wonder if I should revise my plan.

Within the past eight months I've been hospitalized twice. I've been diagnosed with atrial fibrillation. My diabetes attacked a nerve that controls one of my eyes. I wear an eye patch to eliminate double vision. I have no feeling from the soles of my feet to half way up to my knees. The combination of loss of vision and loss of feeling makes walking wobbly, so I use a cane. On different days different knees hurt. My hands hurt 97% of the time. Arthritis, too, of course.

Years ago when our ancestors were gored to death by sabre-toothed tigers before they reached their 21st birthdays, there was little chance of developing our 21st century maladies. Now we have much more time to develop maladies, and there are many more ways to get killed. Cavemen had no nukes nor assault rifles.

In recent weeks I've heard of lots of people dying of "natural causes" at around age 75. And of course there are plane crashes, car crashes, tsunamis, pollution, food poisoning, terrorists and murderers.

In reality, unless we plan suicide, none of us know how much time we have left. There's an old Jewish blessing, "may you live until 120" ("Biz Hundret un Tsvantsig"). Living that long seems extremely unlikely in my case, but now even 89 seems unsure.
 
That really pisses me off. I have lots of stuff still on my bucket list, but maybe I should throw some out of the bucket.

My 70th birthday is scheduled for April 15th. I'd love to celebrate by giving a bronsky to Sofia Vergara. If that turns out to be the last thing I do, I'll die with a big smile on my face.