Where it started

My friend Tom died on January 19, 2007. He was 64, the same age I was. A month later I wrote him a letter. It's still online, because Tom's family kept it.

I told Tom what I had been thinking about:

“This is my 65th year. For a while now I’ve been thinking that my last job as a parent is to get my kids used to the idea that I’m not going to be around forever; to get them used to the idea that I’m going to die. So I’ve been making jokes about it, which at first were utterly rejected and now are—well, not exactly well received, but at least tolerated.”My letter to Tom, February 21, 2007

Then I told him the plan:

“As part of the process I told my kids I was going to have a “Still Alive at 65, Birthday Celebration and Me-morial Service” and then repeat it at 75, 85, and 95. I told them I was doing this so that they’d [get] some practice and so I could be around to hear what people had to say—while it still might do me some good.”

Then the honest part:

“Of course this would require planning, something that I have for all the years of my marriage delegated (she would say abdicated) to Bobbi, so there’s a good chance that nothing will come of it.”

And then this, to Tom:

“But if something does come of it, I hope you’ll manage to make it in as many forms as possible.”

Tom didn't get to 65. I did, and I've been counting ever since.

Something did come of it. It took twenty years, and it's a musical. Tom, you're invited.

— Mike