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I don’t fear death in general, but I do fear it specifically.

Meaning, I am at peace with the idea of leaving this earthly body at some point, of passing through the universal door and returning to the other side.

There is no fear in my heart of death happening to me because I believe what’s in store for us after life is wonderful.

I could be wrong, but I have faith that I’m right.

So I don’t fear my death in general.

What I do fear are certain specifics about the way I might die.

For instance, for a while I feared a painful death.

Until I realized that a painful death wasn’t too much worse than a pain-free death so long as it’s quick.

A pain-free death goes like this: Alive. Dead. Done.

A quick, painful death goes like this: Alive. Ow. Dead. Done.

Before you really feel the hurt, you’re already dead.

I no longer fear a painful death so long as it’s quick.

I do fear a slow, painful death.

Where there’s plenty of time to suffer excruciating pain.

A slow, painful death goes like this: Alive. Ow. Ow. F%$#! Ow. Ow. Sucks. Dead. Done.

That scares me, but at least I would die with the living respecting my painful battle.

Which is why even more than a slow, painful death, I fear an embarrassing death.

One that leaves them mocking me at my own funeral.

An embarrassing death goes like this: Alive. Whoops. No way. Dang. Dead. Done.

“He was doing what when he died? How humiliating…”

“I feel bad for his kids, they’ll be mocked forever.”

“Our lead story tonight, a tragic death with some unusually awkward visuals…”

Some people want to die doing that thing they love to do.

What a perfect way to ruin that thing for everyone else still living.

A doing my thing death goes like this: Alive. Grooving. Uh oh. Dead. Done.

“See? That’s why I would never do that thing, it could kill you.”

“Every time I do that thing now, I think of his death and it ruins it.”

“Our lead story tonight – that thing you like doing might not be as safe as you think…”

Truth be told, I mostly fear a slow, itchy death.

Death by poison ivy or the chicken pox would be the worse for me.

Laying there for weeks, reeking of calamine and menthol, trying not to scratch.

Annoyed. Angry. Hopeless.

A slow, itchy death goes like this: Alive. Hm. Geesh. F#$%. AHH! COME ON! Please Kill me! Dead. Done.

My death is inevitable – I bought that ticket the moment I was born.

I hope mine’s a hero’s death.

Die saving babies or the elderly or a box of wounded puppies.

A hero’s death goes like this: Alive. Help? I gotcha. Uh oh. Dead. Done.

“Good man, so unselfish.”

“Proud to have known him.”

“Can I get one of those bruised puppies?”

If I could choose my exit strategy, I’d die in my sleep.

Just live my best life and then not wake up one day.

An in-my-sleep death goes like this: Alive. Yawn. Zzzz. Dead. Done.

Relaxed, dreaming, itch- and pain-free, wearing my jammies.

That’s the way I want to go.

In case anybody was wondering.