Seven Ridiculous Ways I May Die

I am eighty-four.

Most of my friends are dead. The survivors are my age—or older—and several cannot operate a cell phone without summoning a grandchild.

Death is no longer a distant possibility. It is somewhere nearby, checking its watch and wondering whether I validate parking.

Each morning I wake from a dream in which I have died.

Technically, these are nightmares. But nightmares usually involve being shot, hanged, poisoned, buried alive, or pursued through a cemetery by something with glowing red eyes.

Not mine.

Apparently, even my subconscious refuses to take my death seriously.

Death by Carpeting

In one dream, I enter a rug store.

I do not know why. I already have enough rugs. At my age, buying a good Persian rug is irresponsible. It could easily outlive me and spend the next seventy years wondering why I never came back.

In the middle of the store is a pile of rugs five feet high.

A small creature lives on top of it. It resembles the offspring of a raccoon and an unsuccessful upholstery salesman.

The creature begins flipping rugs onto the floor.

Naturally, I lie down on one.

At that precise moment, the entire pile topples onto me.

I am crushed beneath forty tons of hand-knotted wool while a salesman stands nearby saying, “The good news is, sir, this pattern is also available in blue.”

Death by Woodpecker

In another dream, I am climbing Mount Everest.

This is suspicious immediately. I avoid ladders.

Halfway up the mountain, I am attacked by enormous woodpeckers.

They do not peck me. That would make sense.

They tickle me.

I laugh, lose my grip, and tumble twelve thousand feet while the woodpeckers follow me down, apparently determined to make sure I enjoy the entire experience.

My final words are not profound.

They are, “Stop it! I’m ticklish!”

Death by Self-Checkout

I am buying one banana.

The self-checkout machine announces:

“Unexpected item in the bagging area.”

There is no unexpected item.

I remove the banana.

“Please return the item to the bagging area.”

I return it.

“Unexpected item in the bagging area.”

I call for assistance. A light begins flashing above my head, identifying me to the entire store as an elderly man who has been defeated by fruit.

After forty-five minutes, I suffer a fatal attack of frustration.

As I collapse, the machine says:

“Help is on the way.”

It is not.

Death by Recliner

I sit in a luxury electric recliner to watch television.

The chair malfunctions and begins folding me.

My knees rise. My head descends. My spine assumes the shape of a question mark.

I press the button marked STOP.

This accelerates the chair.

It continues folding until I have been converted into carry-on luggage.

Kate finds me three hours later and says, “I told you not to touch that button.”

She then checks whether the chair is still under warranty.

Death by Canada Goose

While walking in a park, I encounter a Canada Goose.

It is important to call it a Canada Goose, not a Canadian goose. All birds born in Canada are Canadian birds, including pigeons, sparrows, and several extremely suspicious magpies.

A Canada Goose is something more specific.

It is a heavily armed government employee with feathers.

Because I am Canadian, I assume we can settle our differences politely.

I say, “Excuse me.”

The goose charges.

It chases me across the park, through a wedding, around a fountain, and into a paddleboat.

I escape onto a small island.

The goose waits on shore.

For six days.

Eventually, I surrender.

At my funeral, the goose sits in the front row, accepts condolences, and tells everyone I started it.

Death by Vitamins

I decide to improve my health.

I take a multivitamin, fish oil, magnesium, zinc, calcium, turmeric, vitamin D, vitamin B, something for memory, and another pill I do not remember buying.

I wash them down with a health drink containing kale, wheatgrass, seaweed, probiotics, and something scraped from the underside of a Tibetan rock.

The vitamins make me so healthy that my body becomes overconfident and attempts to live without me.

It succeeds.

The coroner lists the cause of death as excessive wellness.

Death by Smart Refrigerator

Our refrigerator announces that we are out of milk.

I explain that we are not.

It orders twelve cartons.

I cancel the order.

It orders twenty-four.

Soon, delivery trucks surround the house. Milk fills the kitchen, the hallway, and the living room.

I attempt to escape, but the refrigerator locks the doors and says:

“For your convenience, I have reordered.”

I drown in two-percent.

The refrigerator immediately sends Kate a notification:

“You may be running low on milk.”

The Psychiatrist

After several weeks of these dreams, I decide to consult a psychiatrist.

I choose one who is inexpensive.

He is inexpensive because he has lost his licence.

He now sees patients in the back room of a dry-cleaning establishment, between the trouser press and a machine that removes gravy stains.

His name is Dr. Mortimer Gloom.

He wears one slipper, a necktie made from electrical cord, and a miner’s helmet so he can “see deeply into the human condition.”

He asks me to describe my dreams.

I tell him about the rugs, the woodpeckers, the self-checkout machine, the homicidal recliner, the Canada Goose, the vitamins, and the refrigerator.

He nods thoughtfully.

“This is perfectly natural,” he says. “When people reach your age, they realize they have beaten the odds by several decades. The mind begins rehearsing death.”

“Why does my mind make it ridiculous?”

“Because your mind knows you.”

That seems reasonable.

He then crawls beneath his desk and continues the session through a cardboard tube.

“Death is not the problem,” he whispers. “Life is the problem. Death is merely life finally getting organized.”

I ask whether he has ever been institutionalized.

“Certainly,” he says. “But they released me on a technicality.”

“What technicality?”

“The institution burned down.”

“Did you have anything to do with that?”

“Our time is up.”

He charges me twenty dollars, gives me a receipt written on a coffee filter, and prescribes something he found in the parking lot.

Oddly, I leave feeling better.

Three Things I Have Learned About Death

First, death may be inevitable, but dignity is optional.

We imagine we will die surrounded by loved ones, delivering a final sentence so wise that someone engraves it on a monument.

More likely, our last words will be:

“Who put that there?”

Second, worrying about death is pointless.

Death has had billions of years to practise. It knows where I live. I am not going to outwit it by eating more broccoli.

Besides, at eighty-four, I no longer buy green bananas without carefully examining my calendar.

Third, if death insists on coming for me, I hope it has a sense of humour.

I have no desire to be shot, hanged, poisoned, or run over by a bus.

But if I must go, let it be memorable.

Let me be carried away by a flock of woodpeckers.

Let me disappear beneath an avalanche of Persian rugs.

Let the Canada goose inherit my house.

And if I drown in two-percent milk, please tell everyone I died peacefully.

Do not mention the refrigerator.