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Annie Turner

Annie Turner
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Friday, November 22, 2013

DEATH CLUBS & VIAGRA MALLS

Isn't that a fabulous title?  Don't you wish you had thought of it?  The other title I had was, "Recent Head-Snappers" which was also fun but not quite as inviting, I think.  Death clubs and Viagra just seem to go together.

So this is my morning ritual, which involves copious cups of Dark Magic coffee (with some attendant nervous mutterings about how un-ecological it all is) and reading my various faith books.  It is a time of spiritual renewal, sort of like a religious shower, and the way I always start my day.

But every now and then the world invades my pious, caffeinated time with something so strange and warped that I spill my coffee and shout to my husband (I have started shouting due to his hearing loss, and will he consider a hearing aid?  Nooo...), "Did you read about the Death Clubs, honey?"

"Death pubs" he said in a considering kind of voice, perhaps the way Piglet pronounced the sign, "Trespassers Will."

"No, that would be too good, actually.  DEATH CLUBS!" I repeated loudly, "for people who have no religion or faith life but are desperate to talk about things that matter.  Like death."

"Why don't they just talk about sex instead?" he replied.  "Much more interesting I should think, not such a downer."

"Apparently not.  People need to talk about death, how they feel about it, what their plans are for it..."  I subsided, taking a sip of my cooling coffee.  Clearly I had been talking too much, and my coffee was objecting and getting stroppy.

I felt sad for these people, even though I understood and applauded their courage.  Sad because I am so fervently and deeply religious, actually believing in most of what the Gospels say, as in: The Raising of Lazarus, the Resurrection, the Grilling of Fish on the Beach, the Ascension, and the Shroud of Turin which is not in the Gospels.  But it should be.  Because where I live and my spirit with me (and also with you), I don't need to go to a Death Club to talk about my last days.  My religion pretty much maps it out for me, and I trust in that.  It's not that I am not completely without fear regarding my personal ending; I would just as soon God gave me a special dispensation to live for--oh, another century or so, but only if I get to keep my teeth.  But that would be violating the natural law, and I have some fondness for said law.

So what do I expect to happen in those final days?  It's a mystery, of course.  And there's no guarantee that I'll have a "good ending," as they say.  We pray to St. Joseph for "a good death," and I plan on starting that real soon.  I could, of course, like my darling Aunt Lucy descend into Alzheimer's, with the last light in my eyes disappearing so that they appeared to be windows with the shades drawn down.  I would prefer to die by cancer than by that slow, insidious withdrawal of cognition and memory.

I expect to see darkness.  I expect to see light blooming in that darkness, a warm and glorious shining I shall head towards.  I hope to be wrapped in that light and drawn in with the unspoken words, "My, you made some messes in your life, Annie, and we'll figure that out, but oh, how I love you. Welcome home, baby!"

That's my hope and why I don't need to attend a Death Club.  Oh, and the other recent head-snapper, the Viagra mall, seen in my spam folder?  (Where else would it be?)  I think I will wait for another time to address that one, because frankly, the mind boggles.