Just finished a book by Tod Benoit titled, Where Are Day Buried? How Did Day Die? This intellectually lightweight tome blends humanity’s historic fascination of death with our more modern obsession with celebrity. Suffice to say, I learned a lot about the demise of sports heroes, TV and movie stars, icons of pop, rock, and blues, historical figures, famous artists, and other newsmakers, as well as the disposition of their remains.
If I ever tire of Southern California’s sun and scenery, the trip would still be worthwhile for the chance to see the final resting place of a host of celebrities. In the Los Angeles area alone there are oodles of at-least-briefly celebrated decedents enjoying eternal rest.
While theirs is not the cemetery most chosen by departed A-listers, my parents share memorial park space with the likes of Bela Lugosi, Jimmy Durante, Jack Haley and Ray Bolger (the Tin Man and Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz, respectively), comedian John Candy, and Bing Crosby. Heck, after paying respects at Mom and Dad’s grave, I could make a day of dropping in on their notable neighbors.
I noticed the famous and the infamous are just as susceptible as anyone to the Four Horsemen of croaking: stroke, heart attack, aneurysm, and cancer. That quartet was credited in Benoit’s book again and again for stamping luminaries with a final expiration date.
Could not help but also note a lot of these dead people ceased to be at my age or younger. Now in my sixth decade, it is hard to ignore the fact that, as the blues men say, a lifetime ain’t too long.
This revelation is underscored by day-to-day events. I complain to my doctor something vaguely hurts somewhere on my body; he tells me it’s because I am getting old. And those phantom discomforts seem to pop up with distressing regularity.
Hmmm, have I ever had this kind of ache in my head before? What’s this throbbing in my side when I lie down? Does this dull pain in my shoulder have anything to do with my heart?
In no time at all, I’ve diagnosed myself with probably no time at all left, thanks to the stroke, heart attack, aneurysm, or cancer that I am surely showing symptoms of.
It does not help that my peers are taking it on the chin, ailment-wise. One pal has endured the hiccups for two weeks; his medical professionals are not sure why.
Another is suddenly struck with debilitating vertigo; the doctors offer him vague guesses and feeble prescriptions. Still another prepares for a round of chemotherapy, this after surgeries to remove tumors.
I don’t suppose I need worry about dying famous. The best that can be done is to enjoy each day, and not devote too much worry to when this life is over.
The old saying is true: no one gets out of here alive. I can live with that, even in relative anonymity.