“What if I told you it was all meant to be? Would you believe me? Would you agree?”

The captain’s very surreal statement echoes in my mind. Since he uttered the words at the witching hour on Sunday morning outside in the brisk twenty-degree temperature, the message is haunting and bizarre. And, disturbing.

I think about his words, replay the scenario, wondering how it all happened and how it almost reached the point of something so unforgivable and final. But, the actual scenario is simply filed in a mental “lesson learned” folder. It’s the poignant note in his firm yet patronizing tone that has crept under my skin.

Sure, I’ve thought about my own death, yet mostly in the “someday” and abstract ideology. Like instead of a traditional Mass and reception, I want an African-American jazz-esque band from Nawlins dressed in their Sunday best attire to march down West Avon Road in Avon, Connecticut, playing, singing, and dancing to “When the Saints Go Marching On.”

But, this morning’s conversation had nothing to do about “someday” and everything to do with the grotesque reality of finding bodies, notifying next of kin, and sobering decisions that follow moot “what-if” questions.

Surprisingly the ideas don’t conjure feelings of nausea or disgust, just a headache and confusion, and emptiness.

It’s no longer about the career aspirations, the goal to have a better body and health, or the friendships and family I’ve loved, but the finality of a fire department official’s authoritative quote, “Had you not done anything and gone back to bed, you wouldn’t have woken up in the morning. You would have been dead.”