I sure did prefer it when I tumbled through life and it read like a comedy script. The drama is killing me... literally. Yet, as anyone knows, comedy's fodder is drama.

I haven't the foggiest idea why *Last Chance for Gas* kept looping through my head last night. I can't even remember its significance in the moment, the symbolism. But that's what I was thinking and knew I wanted to write about so I'm sticking with it.


*****


Yesterday was a hard day, one of the hardest, and I haven't quite figured out why. My eldest, Chase, flew into Nashville to spend the day with me, wonderful Nancy Bradshaw was my chauffeur, and we all met with impeccably professional doctors who specialize in death.

Death is something that greets us the day we're born. It's the process none of us can escape. If we're lucky, a lot of good stuff happens between our first breath and our last. I've been exceptionally lucky.

Despite the platitudes (please don't), death is a word we never get cozy with - at least not until it hunts a person down like a mad dog that somehow or another, one has to tame.

Since my disheartening news from Cleveland Clinic and Vanderbilt's Pulmonary Clinic, I've done my work, my due diligence. I've tamed that scary junkyard dog called Death - accepted it with the type of grace I never in a bazillion years thought I had. You think I'm bragging? You just wait until that dog starts chasing you.


*****


Yesterday, as our consult with the Hospice doctors came to a close, Dr. Martin asked if I wanted to know about death.

I had a Scooby-Doo moment... Ruh-Roh.

We were informed that the likelihood of me dying in my sleep was unlikely... that it doesn't happen often. That as my disease progresses and as I begin to struggle, Hospice will step in to assist - to ease my anxiety, and as I come closer to death, there will be time to call my family so they can be with me.

I swear, just shoot me now. Please.

They changed the game rules.

My life has become a lunatic gyroscope.

The universe shifted gears.

Well, at least I have my estate in order now.

*sigh*


*****


So, you must be wondering why we weren't celebrating last night - toasting with champagne, dancing on tables, lampshades on heads, rejoicing with the new set of rules.

I've thought about it some and this is a partial explanation.

Since my diagnosis, my youngest, David, has been *exposed* the most to my illness. He lived with me for six months while studying for the Bar, and because he's not yet married, my home is his home. Since my diagnosis, we've spent a lot of time together.

He also was with me during the Vanderbilt evaluation and the bad/sad news we received. It was crushing.

He's been overly oriented. He's fourteen years younger than his brother and thirteen years younger than his sister. He got stuck with an old lady for a mother. By default, he's been my go-to child when I needed to talk. He's been amazing.

Last night when I talked to Chase, I told him that saying goodbye to him yesterday was so difficult - that I cried hard. He shared that the goodbye had been tough for him, too. I knew it had. Why? Who knows, who cares? It was heart-wrenching.

This is the dealio:

When we left the consult, I lugged home the word *struggle*. Who the donkey-nose likes that word? Any hands up?

Chase noted that as he left the consult, he heard the word *time*. Isn't that marvelous! Seriously - isn't that marvelous! He gave me a whole new perspective! I love my kids!

It was so good talking to my children last night. But more than any other time - really and truly any other time, we were somber and sad and weepy. We've all shouldered far worse news since this whole horrible IPF stuff started, but yesterday was the hardest day. Devastating. And I'm not quite sure why.

Okay. I'll take a stab at answering my rhetorical question. Yesterday we learned that we have little control over death. Death takes the helm, always. In truth, it's at the helm for all of us from the moment we enter this world. Good heavens, I just saw a news bulletin that in Pakistan 127 children were killed yesterday. Death swooped down and took these precious young people. *blink*

So, who am I to think I'm an exception?



*****



I just got off the phone with the *specialty* pharmacy that will ship my Pirfenidone to arrive tomorrow. Pirfenidone is my Last Chance. So, metaphorically, I'm filling my tanks with positivity and zooming forward with hope.

As always, thanks for listening. Thanks for your kindness. Thanks for everything, everything.