Radio humorist Garrison Keillor had a stroke and writes about it. Crying and laughing will ensue, prepare yourself.


The only reason I’d want to know my departure date is so I can plan that Last Year. I’d take up smoking again (Camels, unfiltered) and resume my love of martinis and Armagnac and Barolo and the Sazerac. The elegant ceremony of cigarette lighting, the intake and the thrill in the lungs, the eloquence of exhalation, the crushing of the ice, the shaking of the shaker.

I’d have to move to Hawaii and live in a house open to the sea breeze so the smoke and fumes wouldn’t upset my wife. There we’d while away the hours as I descended into nightfall. We’d feast on roast pork and steaks as big as dictionaries and baked potatoes stuffed with butter and I’d get fat and float in the pool and await my demise.

Lucky Strikes, martinis, pork butt, potatoes. The end is in sight. Go for it. No need for a clear head as Death circles the house. Meet the old guy bravely, head up, music turned up loud, windows open, and a coffin nail in your hand.

It’s important to think about the things we’d do if we were given a specific departure date. How would that look? What things in our life today could we change if we had this knowledge. I’m not suggesting martinis and Lucky Strikes, but know that the end is always in sight, just sometimes not our sight.  Go for it, whatever it may be.

via Men’s Health