In Ramzy’s “How to Kill a Rock Star,” this blurb in particular caught my attention:
If I live long enough to be pulled into the throes of dementia the memories of that decade will remain deeply etched into my limbic system. It is a physiological certainty.
Family members will become strangers, primitive language will seem foreign, but the mere mention of Tai Streets will cause me to shout uncontrollably and throw my bowl of oatmeal against the wall of the sanitarium. I will forget my own name but be able to spell Biakabutuka without looking it up.
It struck me because I have often joked that as I draw my last, dying breath, the final word to escape my lips will be “Bauserman,” which will set the few people sitting by my bedside scrambling to understand its significance. If they’re Buckeye fans, they’ll understand that the ghost of Ohio State’s 2011 loss to Nebraska will have followed me to death’s door.
What do you think your final words will be, perhaps drawn from the deepest darkest depths of your subconscious? Will they be a regret of some guilt, a confession of some wrong, a request for God’s forgiveness and absolution, a profession of undying love and fealty for your significant other, the name of your first love, or even your favorite sled as a kid?
There are no wrong answers. Feel free to be frivolous or serious.
