Early in my first year of medical school, our class was split into small groups to discuss when and how we each might die. Seemingly a morbid exercise at the time, I imagined that I would die at age 65 of a heart attack; that reasoning stemmed from my close relationship with a grandfather who died of heart disease and my personal conviction, from an early age, that I did not want to live beyond my ability to care for myself. Of course, at age twenty-two, sixty-five seemed to be plenty old.
Throughout my medical career, I came to appreciate the rationale for that exercise. Since we often face the death of patients and the grief of their relatives, it was important to be comfortable with discussing the realities of life and death. Of course, the lesson also clarified that death is both unpredictable and inevitable.
Now, eight years beyond my projected demise, I appreciate the fact that forecasting the future is a fool's errand. On the other hand, my resistance to living beyond my independence remains intact.
