I woke up in a good mood. An hour until tennis.
It’s unusual for us to play on Saturdays, but it’s early January and many are still on holidays.
My neighbors and I start warming up.
Gabriel, usually cheerful and fun to be around, was quiet. Weirdly uncoordinated. Not himself.
We start playing. I’m serving. We won the first game too easily.
Then it’s his turn to serve. He can’t even toss the ball to hit it. Gabriel has a good serve.
We pause and ask if he’s alright.
He says he’s been feeling off, a cold maybe. I push: “What do you feel, exactly?”
“I have existential anguish,” he says.
We walk him off the court. He almost falls. He ends up at the hospital. Heart attack. He’s stable now, in good spirits.
I thought about it all day. Gabriel is retired. Exercises constantly, in good shape, plays tennis at least four times a week. I’ve played with him for over four years. I’ve noticed some physical decline, but nothing concerning.
And then this.
Dying while doing what you love might be one of the best ways to go, though maybe not for those beside you. I can’t plan my death, but I can spend as much time as possible close to what I love, and who I love.
That’s probably the best I can do.