END TIMES, OR JUST A BAD DAY?

End Times is a notion that we’re not long for this world.

The American History Channel time slot filler called “How The World Ends” includes End Times ideas.

It’s pretty bleak, but there’s reason for hope.

The people predicting the end of the world all have something in common:

For the most part they looked like people who struggle with chronic illness.

Physically they are overweight and immobile, tooling around as best they can.

Please don’t take this as fat-shaming, or body-shaming, but the folks seemed like the end of the world might be a little too welcoming for them.

Mentally, they have their talk down cold. They believe the end is near, and with a wild-eyed proclamation, they are ready for it.

One end times prepper said it best with, “Even if I’m wrong about the end of the world, I’ve still got all the stuff for it.”

And they’ll keep buying more stuff and storing it.

Partners For End Times

One woman moved to a place she believed was a safer choice than where she had lived.

Her husband didn’t want to move, but she left anyway. That’s some strong believing.

A man interviewed for his preparations didn’t seem to have anyone else around him.

No wife, no life partner, no accomplice. Just him.

What is a survivalist surviving for without the connections that make life worth living?

It seemed like he was gathering goods along with the tools needed to protect his stash.

In other words, he was already all alone and ready for more alone time with himself.

Is this you, too? Do you know people like this?

If not, you’ve seen them and heard them.

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Kurt Vonnegut wrote a book called Cat’s Cradle that had End Times as a theme.

The people in the book had relationships with each other, instead of isolated in their own minds.

Published the year after the Cuban missile crisis, Cat’s Cradle is the product of a world recovering from two devastating wars whilst in the midst of a new type of conflict. Vonnegut, who famously survived the bombing of Dresden by hiding in the meat locker of a slaughterhouse, was one of the great literary figures of the 20th century, and his sharp satirical novels – as funny as they are thought provoking – are postmodern classics.

Facing Uncertainty Together

End Times happen to all of us. It’s called death.

This should be no surprise. We read about people passing every day on the doom scroll.

The Covid pandemic ended the lives of too many and we were along for the ride, hoping we wouldn’t get tagged.

I’ve known two men who planned their final exit.

Man 1: I won’t be a problem in old age. I’ve two friends who check in on me. Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson.”

This man decided he’d shoot himself when he felt he couldn’t go on.

Did anyone ask why he’d blow his guts and bones all around a room for someone else to clean up?

I did. He didn’t like the question. People often don’t want their plans explained past the implementation.

This man was my father in-law, my wife’s stepdad.

He ended up getting Parkinson’s disease and dying in his sleep after five years of my caregiving.

His doctor had given him two days, maybe one.

Man 2: Don’t worry about me. When the time comes I’ll saddle up Old Paint and ride way up the mountain and release him.

This was my Dad. No one told him severely ill people don’t ride horses, and he became severely ill suddenly.

He passed after a seemingly endless array of tests that found the medical community could do little for him.

Both men had wives dedicated to them, along with kids and grandkids. In the end, nothing mattered but the moment.

This is what End Times people ignore: you can’t do much when your own end is near.

A Shared End View

With a fused hip, I decided I’d be the one to stay behind and guard the door if we had to run for it.

I didn’t want to hinder an escape if that’s what happens.

Then I got my fused hip replaced. I’ll be leaving with the group if we go.

Besides, I like the idea of being useful in my aging life.

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After being an attentive listener to someone I care about, I spent the night in an ICU for observation.

I think I listened too hard, took it to heart, and my heart said, “You got a problem, boy.”

And I did.

I was another old guy laid up in a hospital room on monitors. If I had to run for it then I wouldn’t have made it out the first door.

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Chemo and radiation for neck cancer put me in a state of acceptance. Denial would have been nice, but I was too far along the treatment trail for that.

I was hammered, spiraling down, and letting go.

‘Come at me, Grim Reaper, I’m easy.’

But it wasn’t my time.

I eventually recovered from each setback and regained a little more fight for the day.

Good day, or bad day, it’s our day and we must fight for it. But, what’s that mean?

Fight the fear of anonymity, that nothing matters, especially you.

Fighting the idea of being a misfit in a custom fit world is the challenge.

From Reader Randall’s recent comment:

My dad was a Buddha that rarely embraced confrontation, and my mom was a shrinking violet that turned out to be wiser than I ever thought. I never accorded either of them the respect they deserved while they were alive, to my regret. 

They manipulated me to do ‘what was right’ by instilling the fear of unknowable consequences in me and disapproving in no uncertain terms of anything I ever did that went near the line. I eventually came to understand that my dad was the family patriarch in his quiet way, and I liked that. But when I tried to emulate him, I couldn’t–I tend to be far too assertive, apparently–and now most of my relatives don’t talk to me. It’s really funny in a sad sort of way when you realize that you’re not a good fit in your own family.

My response:

I love the idea of not being a good fit in your own family. There’s always one, and if there’s not one, I’m suspicious.

Making an effort at fitting in sent me to the ICU for ‘observation.’ That’s my new gold standard, “love ’til it hurts, but know your limits.”

Thank you for coming in, Randall. You make this a better blog.

If you’re reading this today, is your life better?