We're working toward having minimal stuff in our house for the kids to clean out when we die

The basement storage room in question

Such a morbid headline today, and the second time in a month I've written something that makes it sound like I'm at death's door.

Thankfully, that is not the case. I'm only 56 years old and in pretty good health. Neither Terry nor I plan on going anywhere any time soon.

BUT...we are also of the age where we have lost all four of our parents. In each case, we were involved in the job of cleaning out their houses after they passed.

When you find yourself renting a dumpster and spending hours and hours combing through boxes in Mom and Dad's attic trying to figure out what to save and what to toss, you become conscious of the need to spare your own kids that same laborious task.

So Terry and I have committed to a program of getting rid of the extraneous stuff in our house over time.

When I say "over time," I admit that means we're not exactly in a rush. If we were both hit by a bus today, our children would have a heck of a time cleaning out the basement storage room, not to mention the rest of the house.

It's just that 34 years of marriage and five kids mean you accumulate a lot of possessions, some of which you want to keep.

Those boxes of baby clothes? We store them for grandkids, knowing full well they take up a whole lot of space in the meantime.

That wall of Christmas decorations? Hey, we're festive people!

High school memory bins? We've admittedly trimmed those down over time, but we still have yellowing newspaper articles and varsity jacket letters that will simply be thrown away when we've moved on from this life.

Speaking of newspaper articles, in that storage room are a few large bins of three-ring binders stuffed with copies of virtually every story I ever wrote for The News-Herald and the Plain Dealer when I was a sports journalist.

That's thanks to my dad, who meticulously cut out each one and taped them onto scrapbook pages for long-term preservation.

A year ago I came this close to throwing those binders away, but I just couldn't do it. It felt like I would be dishonoring years of Dad's work and turning a blind eye to how proud he was of his sports writer son.

So instead I vowed to digitize them all before I throw away the hard copies.

Which, of course, will take some time.

Time I assume I have.

Kids, my sincere apologies if I never actually get around to it.

You get used to your parents being gone, even if you don't want to

Today would have been my mom's 93rd birthday. She passed away five years ago this summer, right in the middle of the pandemic.

What made the whole thing tougher is that we didn't get the chance to see her in person from mid-March, when she went into assisted living after a stay in the hospital, until the day before she died in early July. Covid restrictions and everything, you know.

We got to see her on FaceTime during those chaotic months, but that's obviously not the same thing.

Terry and I were scheduled to see her on July 2nd for a "window visit," where the assisted living folks would bring her to a window (maybe a window screen so we could talk? I can't remember) and we could actually see her face to face.

But a catastrophic fall earlier that week changed those plans in a hurry. Yes, we did get to see her in person on July 2, but it was instead at hospice when she was unconscious and nearing the end of her time on this earth.

She passed away the next day, but not before we had the chance to say our goodbyes. I've always been grateful for that.

Anyway, with my dad having died several years earlier, I've been without my parents for a while now. Terry's mom passed away less than three weeks before mine, and she lost her dad a year and a half ago, so she's in the same boat.

You still have those moments when you want to call them and share some big news or just talk about something that happened to you, and then you remember they're not around anymore. It's a sad, jarring realization.

It happens less frequently now, but it still happens. I've become accustomed to being an "orphan" (as my daughter jokingly put it), though I'm not sure that makes any of it easier.

Have you seen that meme going around on social media that shows a phone screen with an incoming call from "Mom" and "Dad?" It says something like, "If you still receive these calls, be grateful."

I agree. You don't know what you have until it's gone.

At some point in your life, 30 years in the future becomes a very different concept from what it used to be

For much of your life, when you look far into the future, it's almost always to a time when you're still likely to be relatively healthy and active.

Like, for example, when you're 20 years old and set goals 30 years down the line, you're thinking of the 50-year-old version of yourself. That may seem pretty old to you as a young adult, but those of us who have passed that age know that 50 is still a time when you have lots of energy to do the things you want to do.

Now, however, when I undertake that same mental exercise as a 55-year-old, it's a little different. In 30 years, if I'm still blessed to be around, I'll be 85.

Suddenly that 30-year projection takes on a whole different character. While it's true that age is just a number and you're only as old as you allow yourself to feel, 85 is still 85, no matter how you slice and dice it.

Unless you were around in early Bible times when people apparently lived well into the triple digits, 85 has always been a ripe old age for human beings.

Emphasis on "old."

Advances in medicine and the understanding of genetics are pushing the boundaries of our collective lifespans, but if you read the death notices in the newspaper, you can't help but notice that most people who pass away are still mostly in their 70s and 80s.

And so, as I undertake any sort of long-term planning, I do it now for the first time with the idea that I can only look so far ahead.

Barring acute illness or accident, I'm nowhere near the point of shuffling off this mortal coil, of course. But you do start to realize that we all have an expiration date. And it's coming sooner or later, no matter how hard we try and stave it off.

It's not like I'm constantly thinking about death. It's just occasional, though I imagine it gets a little more frequent as you get into your 60s, 70s and beyond.

I could very well still be kicking until I'm 100 or more. Can't say for sure. But any longer-range goals I set for myself these days tend to be within a shorter time window than they used to be.

Say, for example, "I want to still be living next Thursday."

That feels pretty manageable.

An escalator tried to kill my wife

Today's headline is admittedly a bit melodramatic, but it's true that Terry was almost eaten by an escalator not long ago.

We were returning to our car after taking in a Cleveland Cavaliers basketball game. It was bitter cold that day, so we parked at the Tower City complex in Downtown Cleveland and took the 1,000-foot underground pedestrian tunnel to and from the arena, rather than walking outside.

When we got back to Tower City, there was a line of people waiting to use the elevator to get down to the lower parking levels. Rather than waiting with them, we decided to go around the line and look for stairs or another way to reach the area where our car was parked.

We weren't sure where we were going (in retrospect, we should have just waited in the elevator line), and at one point I had us mistakenly go down an escalator I thought would get us where we needed to go. 

Turns out it was an escalator to an RTA Rapid train station. Even before we got to the bottom, we knew we were going the wrong way and would have to find our way back up to where we started and search elsewhere.

Just as we got to the bottom of the escalator, though, Terry pitched forward and fell. I thought she had just tripped, and I reached down to help her up.

But she wouldn't (couldn't) get up and instead just kept saying, "It's got me! It's got me!"

I didn't understand what she meant. What had her? Why wasn't she standing up?

Fortunately, a guy behind us saw instantly what had happened. Terry's shoelace had gotten caught in the escalator and her foot was being pulled down. He grabbed her leg and yanked her foot free, and immediately apologized that he had to break her shoelace to save her.

No apologies necessary, Mr. Good Samaritan. Once I understood what had happened, I was just grateful he had helped her. We both thanked him and eventually made our way to the parking garage and our car.

Terry came away mostly unscathed, though she was a little sore the next day.

And I'm not sure I'm getting her back on an escalator any time soon.

I'm now the guy who waves at passing cars when I walk

Bill Reid is a man I admire. He is a legend here in Wickliffe for several reasons, not the least of which is that he served as mayor of our town and has also donated hundreds of pints of rare type AB blood to the Red Cross over many decades.

He also became, at some point, the Waving Guy.

Bill used to walk around Wickliffe a lot. Maybe he still does. I'll have to ask the next time I see him at a high school sporting event.

When he would walk, he would wave to each and every passing car. You could count on getting a wave from Bill if you drove past him.

That is not Bill in the photo above, by the way, but he did always have the same friendly smile when he waved.

I used to think this was so funny. Kind of a quirky old guy thing.

Until I started doing it myself.

Now, let it be said that when I'm out walking or running, I only wave at cars I pass on my street (Miller) and the adjoining street (West Miller). I don't do it on other, busier streets in town.

More specifically, I do it when I'm walking/running in the street because there are no sidewalks available. And as much as I intend it as a friendly greeting, it's also a simple acknowledgement of the fact that the passing motorist has seen me and moved over to give me some room.

"Thank you for noticing me and not killing me with your 5,000-pound SUV," is what I'm in effect telling people.

I do the things you're supposed to do when you walk/run on the side of the road, including going against traffic and wearing a yellow reflective vest. Still, you would be surprised how many clueless people speed up Miller and don't notice me until the last second because they're on their phone.

Actually, maybe you wouldn't be surprised.

Either way, I'm grateful to every driver who allows me to live another day. Waving to them is probably the least I can do.

What will the kids say about you when you're gone?

Here's a good thing to do every once in a while if you're a parent:

Stop for a second and imagine you're dead. (I know, I know. Work with me here.) Now picture your kids sitting around and talking about their memories of you. What will they say?

"Remember how he couldn't fix stuff except maybe computers? Man, he did not get the handyman gene AT ALL."

OK, fine, guilty.

"He told Dad Jokes. He didn't think they were Dad Jokes, but they were."

Yeah, sorry, but I really did think my jokes were funny.

"And he made up that toad song on the guitar."

This is true. I don't play the guitar, but I do know how to pluck out an E-minor arpeggio, which I play in the background over a short set of lyrics I wrote about a guy who meets a wise toad. I'm not kidding. It's a classic.

"When we were little, he used to wrestle with us. And he played those songs on the computer that we would dance to."

Do they remember all of that? I hope so. I sure do.

"Why did he get so mad when he played board games with us and we would knock the pieces over?"

BECAUSE IT WAS FRUSTRATING. I TOLD YOU OVER AND OVER, "DON'T KNOCK THE BOARD!" WHAT PART OF THAT DIDN'T YOU GET?

"I thought it was weird that he built those model rockets. It's like he used us as a cover. He just wanted to build and launch those rockets, and spending time with us was his excuse."

Inside every man is a 12-year-old boy. That 12-year-old boy manifests himself in different ways. In my case, it's launching model rockets into the sky and seeing if we can recover them. Oh, and also snickering any time anyone says the word "duty."

"He was a strange guy. But he loved us. I always knew he loved us."

Even if they don't say that, I hope they know it's true.

Anyway, while we're still alive, we should realize what influence we have over those future around-the-table conversations among our children. What you say and do now affects how they grow, how they think, and how they remember their upbringing. Not a bad thing to keep in mind.

How long do you want your parents to live?

I know, that's a horrible question even to ask. "Forever," is the correct answer, of course, and I get it.

But realistically speaking, is there a point at which we may be better off just, well, not being around anymore? The point where the difficulties of everyday living outweigh the benefits?

I suggest there is, and it's obviously different for everyone. Somewhere along the way, it gets too painful to move and breathe, and no amount of medicine can fix it. That's the time when you just hope you can gracefully exit stage left and be on your way to the next great adventure.

I bring this up because this Sunday would have been my dad's 86th birthday, and I have to tell you, there was no way that man was going to make it to 86. Or if he did, there's no way he was going to do it comfortably.

Dad tried to take care of himself somewhat in his later years, but decades of smoking, drinking and questionable dietary practices were inevitably going to take their toll. In fact, they did take a toll when a heart attack whisked him away at age 70.

As I mentioned to a work colleague recently, we're all ultimately "terminal." It's just that some of us will get to the end faster than others.

All I'm looking for is to have as many years as possible of relative good health and pain-free living. Then, when it's my time to go, I'd like the decline to be quick and easy.

None of us has full control over whether that happens, but we do have at least some influence through the way we choose to live. Exercise, stress management, a good diet, maintaining social relationships, always having something fun to do. These are key elements of a long and happy existence.

Just so long as you recognize that this life has an unavoidable expiration date, as do your parents' lives, and that you can make the years prior to that expiration date happy ones, then you're doing this whole "life" thing correctly.

Pet death pool: Which one of our animals will die next?

When you're a parent, the death of a pet is no small thing.

First and foremost, you're in charge of comforting your children and helping them understand that death is natural, that Fluffy had a good life, that yes we can eventually get another kitten, etc.

Then of course there's the problem of disposing of the carcass. This isn't a bad thing with goldfish or small rodents. It's quite another matter if you're talking a St. Barnard or a horse.

So while I enjoy the mini zoo we have in our house, it never escapes my notice that one by one, these animals will all eventually die. And when they do, the responsibility for handling their corpses will fall on me as the father. This is not always the case, of course, but I would say dads handle dead animal management to a greater degree than moms do.

So I constantly keep an unofficial Animal Dead Pool going in my head. At any given time, I try to have a pretty good idea of the overall health of every pet in the house so that I can be prepared when it's time for one of them to take the Eternal Dirt Nap and I'm tasked with finding them a suitable resting place.

Right now, I would classify our pets into three general categories. Here's the breakdown:

Probably Not Dying Any Time Soon

CHARLIE (CAT)

Charlie is a Lynx Point Siamese, and thus he has a pretty slight build. But it took him maybe three weeks of living in our house to establish himself as the alpha male. Thus, he rules the roost and is rarely bothered by the other cats. Charlie does what he wants when he wants, so there's no stress in his life. His only real peril is a penchant for escaping the house and spending the night outside, but he's tough enough to protect himself, so no worries there.

SERENDIPITY (HAMSTER)

You generally don't see hamsters placed into this category because they don't live that long, maybe three years on average. But this animal, which is actually a hairless "naked" hamster, is so secluded that I forget she exists. Chloe is her owner/mother, and she does a good job keeping her fed and cared for. Serendipity will be with us a good while longer, I dare say.

A Trip to the Vet Is Probably a Good Idea

FRED & GEORGE (CATS)

I lump these two together because they're brothers and they both suffer from the constant stress of trying to avoid Charlie and Bert, a good chunk of whose lives are spent tormenting Fred and George. Stress kills, man, and I'm sure it will shorten the lifespan of these two felines. Plus Fred is demonstrably overweight, so I'm sure there's some hardening of the arteries in there for him, as well.

LUCY (GUINEA PIG)

She always looks nervous to me, so I'm thinking stress is a risk factor for her, too. Plus, she's a long-haired guinea pig, and they tend not to live as long as their shorter-haired counterparts (usually about 5 years). I don't know how old Lucy is, but I just don't see it lasting, you know? She has that dull "It's OK If I Die, Really, I Don't Mind" look in her eyes.

PERCY (CHINCHILLA)

Chinchillas live a shockingly long time, at least to me. The figures vary, but domestic chinchillas can stick around anywhere from 10 to even 20 years. I was thinking/hoping our two would last half that long, but no such luck. Anyway, given that, you'd think I would put them both into the "Probably Not Dying Any Time Soon" category. But Percy's feedings are sometimes sporadic, and I'm afraid at some point we'll just forget about giving him food even though his cage is right there in the living room and he'll die. I hope not, but I wouldn't put it past us.

Get the Shovel Ready

BERT (CAT)

Bert is huge. He's a long-haired breed, which of course makes him look even bigger than he already is. But even if you shaved him, you would still be left with a lot of cat. Elissa and Terry rescued Bert from a busy street in the middle of winter a few years ago. He still has some effects from that experience, including what we can only assume was frostbite in his paws. That, plus his excess weight, plus the fact that he moves so slowly that sometimes it seems he's already dead = don't buy any green bananas, Bert.

ANDROMEDA (CHINCHILLA)

Again, chinchillas live a good while, but Andromeda doesn't seem like she's long for this world. She has, on multiple occasions, chewed through her cage and escaped, only to be found days later wandering around the house. One of these times she's going to get out and we'll never see her again. Or at least we'll never see her alive again. We'll certainly smell her once she starts to decompose somewhere in the hidden recesses of the basement. And then of course who will get the call to go down there, scoop her up and bury her in the backyard? That's right, everybody, it'll be Good Old Dad!

Welcome to your mid-40s, where every bump is automatically a tumor

At some point in the last couple of years, I crossed a bridge from being youthful and carefree to being a hypochondriac.

The upshot is that I assume every little symptom, slight pain, and innocuous bump is a sign of some terminal disease.


ME: What's this thing on my hand? That wasn't there yesterday! Oh no, I have hand cancer!

TERRY: That's a callous.

ME: Oh.


This was going to happen eventually, but I figured I had at least 10 more years to go.

It doesn't help that I read a lot of "how to take care of yourself and achieve perfect health" books, all of which are well-intentioned but also fill me with fear and dread over the things I'm not doing to maintain my body.

That list of neglected activities includes, but is certainly not limited to, stress management, strength training, eating salmon, and exercising every day.

So part of me assumes that since I'm not doing everything I'm supposed to be doing, I'll be dead inside of five years.

I liked it better when I was 25 and had only a vague inkling that that second piece of cake probably wasn't a good idea.

Who do you want to die first: You or your spouse?

No, really, I'm asking this seriously. Would you rather die first? Or would you rather that your husband/wife die first?

And don't do that noble "Oh, I would willingly sacrifice myself so that my spouse could live on" thing. I want a straight answer: Deep down, if you could make the choice and no one would know, would you choose to live longer yourself? Or would you let your significant other carry on while you're six feet under?

Short of homicide, none of us has a say in the matter, of course. And statistics tell us that in the majority of cases, the wife lives longer than the husband, since women tend to outlive men.

But if you had to decide, what are you going with?

If you say you would rather live longer, there are some pros and cons to consider:

PROS
The most obvious one, duh, is that you get to live longer. That falls right in line with natural survival instincts. Also, all those years of waking up cold because your spouse pulled the covers off you? Gone. You can now spend the remainder of your days (or nights, I guess) in toasty warm comfort. You're also a Committee of One when it comes to making such important decisions as what movie to watch on Friday night or how to hang the toilet paper (NOTE: It should definitely be "over" and not "under.")

CONS
Well, let's be serious here. You're going to be awfully lonely if you're the only one left. I watched my mom make a series of painful life adjustments after my dad died 15 years ago, and I give her credit for doing it as well as she did. I'm not sure I could handle it. Also, all of the chores the other person always did – which they probably took over because you hated those jobs so much – are suddenly your responsibility. It's something to think about.

There's also this complicating factor: If you decide you want to be the one to go first, that means you're purposely saddling your spouse with all of the "cons" listed above. Nice going. You just made their Life After You even MORE miserable.

I've always joked with Terry that, given my family history of heart disease, this isn't even a question for us. I'll be dead and buried and she'll still have 20 or 30 good years in front of her. But if I had to choose? Wow....I don't know. I guess I would still choose to die first.

NOTE TO TERRY: When I'm gone and you have to take over cleaning the cat litter boxes, you should remember to always keep at least 3 inches of litter in each box. Otherwise those balls of smelly cat urine tend to stick to the plastic and are hard to scrape off. You're welcome.