Things I Think About

Death, addiction, and the meaning of life — maybe you do too

My father died when he was 44. I was 25.

Pretty much every year since my dad died I’ve had this thought when my birthday rolls around:

“Dad only had X number of years to live before he died.”

When I turned 30, for example, I thought, “Dad only had 14 more years to live before he died. When I turned 40, I thought, “Dad only had 4 more years to live before he died.”

I’m no psychologist, but I guess the implication on some level of my subconscious was that I only had that many more years to live too. And the next question was what was I going to do with that time.

I turned 44 in October this year. The same age as my dad when he died.

Thankfully, I’m still alive. Obviously, because I’m writing this piece. But I think about death a lot. I think about my dad’s life and I wonder if he was truly happy. I wonder what his dreams were and what his disappointments were and if he had any regrets.

I wonder what he’d be doing if he were still alive. I wonder what kind of conversations we’d have. I wonder how different the holidays and other special occasions would be if he were still here.