I could not understand why I did not want to go to church.  Today I did.  It has been going on for two months.  Today it hit me.  I did not know how to discuss the prognosis of my doctor.

For a long time I assumed I might live somewhere to the ripe old age of maybe eighty or ninety (that is how long my mother and father lived respectively) but now I am not sure I will make it to sixty-five.  I am now sixty-one now (???).

I did not know how to openly discuss my fears on death.  Or at least I was afraid to.  I did fall into a depression.  I realized my staying away was a way I had of indicating in a passive way there was something seriously wrong with me.  I had been going regularly–every Sunday morning to my little church.

The news from my nephrologist was not good:  within a year I might be undergoing dialysis.  One prognosis for patients undergoing dialysis is only a third survive beyond five years.  Your chances of developing heart problems and strokes are greatly increased, also.

If my prognosis is that bad, I am determined to use my remaining time as best as I can.  I am no longer going to spend my time on things that really do not matter.

My wife and I considered putting our affairs in order.  It is time to make a will.  No one knows for sure how long they will have on this earth.  One thing is for certain every person will die but no one wants to talk about it.  It is the final taboo.

I am going to reexamine my life and truly do only what matters to me.  I know now I do not have forever.  The handwriting is on the wall.