Death and taxes —but mostly death
By Liz Biggs

“In this world, nothing can be certain but death and taxes,” said Benjamin Franklin in 1789. He totally deserves his place on the $100 bill, not only for this wise statement, but also for his inventions — the lightning rod, stove, bifocal glasses and urinary catheter (fun stuff, Ben). Don’t worry, I won’t be writing about taxes. After doing taxes for years, I can attest that taxes are boring. I’m going to attempt to write about death. I am deathly afraid of death, and fear is never boring, so prepare to be sad but not bored.
Death is not something I’ve thought much about in my life. But lately, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Recently, my friend’s husband passed away — unexpectedly and suddenly. One day, I was hanging out with them at the Wisteria, and then poof, he was gone. And a dear friend’s son passed away soon after that. All this death has me realizing that it is not my death that scares me to death; it is the unbearable grief of losing a loved one that frightens me. I can’t imagine the pain and sorrow of losing a spouse or a child. I try so hard not to think about it, but when I go to a funeral, it hits me like a brick. It’s paralyzing.
I suppose all we mere mortals can do is try to live a full life. Fill our buckets before we kick the bucket (forgive me, I’m trying to lighten this heavy subject). Dance and play tennis until our bones break and our muscles tear. Travel to all the places we’ve dreamed about. Waste a day traveling to Ogden, Utah, for a concert to see our favorite band, not caring if we are the only people there without tattoos.
All this death has me wanting to call all my loved ones and say I love you. And text my friends just for the heck of it. And be more kind to people I don’t love, but kind of like, because what if they are visited by the grim reaper next?
It also has me reflecting on my life a little bit. I was reckless in my teens and twenties. If I was a cat, I would have used up about 7 of my 9 lives already. After my lung surgery at 19, the pulmonologist told me to avoid scuba diving and high altitudes. But, like a toddler, all I wanted to do was what he told me I couldn’t do. So I got scuba certified and dove 100 feet down in Key West. Sharks and barracudas had me scurrying up the rope a little faster than I should have, but I only had a mild case of the bends and survived. Got pretty sick, though.
And then there was that bike crash into a car on the way home from a Monopoly party at a friend’s house — instead of collecting $200, we did a shot every time we passed Go. I lived to tell, but my body was pretty mangled. They used liquid cocaine in the ER to clean the pavement from the gashes on my legs, at least that’s what I think I remember. I hit my head too, so who knows?
Growing up in Florida, I waterskied but never snow skied. So, at 20, on my first snow skiing trip to Aspen, I signed up for ski school. Feeling invincible, on day two, I tried a black diamond slope. Oh, was I vincible! Skied right off the side of that mountain and barely missed a tree. Buried in the powdery snow for a few hours, finally someone heard me screaming and sent the ski patrol. On my next ski trip, we went to Big Sky in Montana and faced a whiteout. Skiing blind down a slope is the most frightening thing I’ve ever done. Well, besides having a baby “natural,” with no drugs. That was terrifying.
Thank goodness my frontal lobe finally developed, and my fearlessness subsided. Although I attempted hiking at 14,000 feet in Bolivia a few years ago and suffered severe altitude sickness, so maybe I’ll never learn to be cautious — for you can’t live your life trying not to die, right? Or can you? These days, I do everything I can to stay healthy, but I’m still trying to fill my bucket.
My bucket is full of travels and adventures, so in light of recent deaths, I now want to fill it with quality time with my loved ones. And fun conversations with friends. Maybe that frontal cortex has finally matured after all; it just took a while.