Do you ever think of what it would be like if you died?

Morbid, right? Perhaps a bit of context is in order.

I’ll be traveling starting next week. I haven’t bought books in nearly a month, which is so out of character for me that the very thought is extremely disturbing. So I asked a couple people for recommendations. There were 2 I decided to purchase – The Pickwick Papers (Charles Dickens) and Fight Club (Chuck Palahniuk). Interesting, I thought as I sleepily walked back from the bookstore on campus.

Later, I left work early to attend my last tutoring session for my 5th graders. School will be over by the time I’m back home from my trip, so I wanted to stop and get treats to celebrate the end of our time together. I always bring them something – a bribe for attention and effort that is only sometimes effective – so I didn’t want to break tradition today.

On the shuttle ride to my parking lot, I grabbed Dickens out of my bag, shaking my head over its sheer length compared to Palahuniuk. Never one to criticize wordiness (glass houses and all that), I started to read. I didn’t make it through more than 15 pages before we got to my stop, and I walked to the car, plugged in the iPod, and set off to the store before finding my way to the middle school one last time.

Dickens died in 1870. That’s a pretty long time ago. I work in a technical science field – I generally don’t care about papers published more than 3 years in the past. Techniques change, interpretations improve, acquisition and/or data processing is continuously evolving and I’ve never been a fan of reinventing the wheel. Just tell me what we’ve figured out most recently, why it’s better than what we used before, and I’m all in. So reading work that’s old is a bit novel for me of late. It’s rather lovely, I decided, driving along, that Dickens is still making contributions – providing entertainment, inspiration, a historical perspective. Whatever. My point is that he occupied space in my head today – a man who has been gone for a long time, who’ll never know that I thought of him. It’s interesting.

But I’m basically self-centered, so I moved on from Dickens to think about me. What if I died? Well, first, how would I die? Car accident, I decided – play the odds. I’m pretty healthy, though getting to the age where genetic problems could start to show up if they’re going to do so, but I’m not a great driver. Distracted, hurried, operating under the firm belief that everyone should follow the rules completely, making my speed and daydreaming perfectly fine. I’ve totaled 2 cars, having minor accidents in another 2. Traffic is miserable around here. It makes sense.

So let’s say I’m gone. Since it’s my thought process, I’m saying it was quick and painless. And I believe we go somewhere better when we die. So I’m good. But what of people here?

My parents would be sad, certainly. Profoundly so. Brother as well – he too is the dramatic sort, so he’d dwell in sorrow for some time. My niece wouldn’t remember me, and Brother’s wife is hardly my biggest fan. There are a few more family members that would be affected by the news. But they’re all used to not seeing me every day. So it would be bad, but they’d move on.

Chienne would be hit the hardest, I fear. She’s with me all the time, and waits for me at my parents’ window every day when I travel. She wouldn’t understand, I thought sadly, starting to get weepy. And my parents would keep her, of course, reminded every day of how I wasn’t around. I getting quite sad, so I decided to move on.

People at work? Eh – wouldn’t really matter all that much. Momentary regret, likely. People at church? I’m friendly, but don’t really remember my names. So I doubt there’d be much more than a prayer for my family in this difficult time. My friends? Again, they’d be sad, certainly, but it’s not like we’re in touch all that much. Sporadic email – mostly light and funny – a few phone calls. It would be wrenching, I comforted myself, but overall? Probably not such a big deal. You guys online? You’d probably wonder where I went, leave a comment after a couple weeks, hope sincerely that I was well. Maybe someone would come across the site after several months and wonder why I didn’t leave a farewell post.

I was actually comforted. It’s not like I’m leaving children behind with nobody to love them as much as I could. Or a spouse – that strikes me as particularly awful. Beyond words, beyond inclusion into my mental wanderings because it somehow minimizes the pain that people can and do experience. But I don’t have those things – they don’t add to the loss of the world if I’m gone.

I then considered the loss of possibilities. I could have a husband and children at some point. There's the potential that I'll contribute something profound - life-changing in a certain patient population – at work. I could contribute to the literature in a major way. I might teach a class in particularly unique and effective manner. There’s a possibility of writing something here – offering a moment of humor or thought or comfort to someone. All important – quite valuable, actually.

But someone else could do it. Marry the man I might have loved. Figure out that technique at work, apply it in patient populations. Write those papers, lecture in those classes, publish those posts. I don’t at all consider myself to be irreplaceable to anyone other than those I know intimately. Family, a few friends – a very small number of people who love me and are loved deeply in return. Other than that? It’s all just what could have been.

I arrived at the middle school, treats in hand, and set them out. I put sticky notes on them, pricing the boxes, assigning some value of sales tax, then noting the quantity in the box. Never hurts to do some Math while having snacks, I told myself with a smile. Then I went to the secretary and had her call the students on my list – they rarely remember to come on their own. They arrived quickly, greeted me, exclaimed over the cupcakes, juice boxes, cheese and crackers. We sat down over dry erase boards and worked problems, spoke of multiplying decimals, when to add, when to divide.

Then, as we sipped juice through tiny straws, Alice asked if she could get her textbook so I could help her with today’s lesson. I nodded distractedly while going over the sales tax issue with Aaron. She returned and we did homework problems. I encouraged Aaron and Sarah as they moved along quickly, focused on Alice, watching her face for cues of understanding or continued confusion, tried different words, different order, different numbers.

We didn’t make much progress, I thought with some sadness. I looked around the table and realized that these Monday afternoons weren’t going to be my legacy either.

Carrie, a friend from grad school, had a little crisis too. Several years ago, I thought suddenly – she was 29 at the time. We were walking down the streets of Toronto, late at night after a day at the conference and an evening out with the boys.

“I’m just depressed.” She sighed. “Having some sort of quarter-life crisis.”

I waited for a moment, walking beside her. I looked over to find her watching me expectantly and I laughed.

“Do you really think you’ll live past 100?” I asked, watching her scowl. “I mean, quarter-life seems overly optimistic to me. Seems like you should be doing something about it – making that difference, doing something profound – rather than whining about not having done it already. You still have time. But perhaps not as much as you’re planning on having.”

True story, I decided. I’m likely past the ¼ mark myself. Not at the halfway point yet, but who knows? I’m really not a great driver and I do spend a lot of time in the car. Will people think of me 100 years from now? I sincerely doubt it, but that’s really fine. I don’t need them to do so. I have no desire to write a book, though I do like reading them. And I have other goals – ways I’d like to matter – but I’m waiting for some things to fall into place for them.

You’re not helpless, I scolded. You’re here now – certainly talented and capable of being important to someone somehow.

“So we’re done then?” Aaron asked, and my heart hurt for a moment. I loved these kids – they were funny and frustrating and smart and loud and inconsistent with behavior and effort. But we were making progress. And now it was over. And I wasn’t done yet, I thought bitterly. I could have taught them more, listened a little harder, spent more time preparing, asked more questions about problem areas. It’s too bad we don’t have more time.

“No. It's not completely over yet.” I said quickly before they headed out the door after lining up to give me hugs. “How would you feel about getting together again next year?”