54: A Pre-Mortem

54.

I am officially 54.

What the actual eff?

Okay, technically I’ve been 54 for five days now – but still, it takes a minute to adjust to a new number. For first-quarter-of-the-year babies it’s even more challenging as we are just getting used to the digits of a new year and then bam, we have to remember our new age, as well. 

I’m 53, oh wait, no, 54–I’m 54. What year is this, again?

I told myself that, this year, I’d start doing something a bit different on my birthday: a pre-mortem. I read about the pre-mortem last year and fell in love curiosity with the idea. I suppose it could be considered a relative of those pesky New Year’s resolutions, except with no pressure or risk of being abandoned sixteen days later. Pre-mortems are meant to occur around one’s birthday, with attention focused on the happenings between one’s birth and one’s death.

A pre-mortem simply tasks you with a few questions. Are those questions deep? Yes. Those questions focus on the internal monologue you will likely have as your soul begins the journey to its next station.  

If my deathbed were to be delivered in the next few years, what would I be thinking about from under its covers? What would I be proud of? What would I have changed? How would my obituary read?

When I read about the pre-mortem early last year, I clearly didn’t know what the months following would bring me or that deathbeds would become a regularity in my life. I have been intimately involved in death over the last twelve months. At this point, you’d think I’d be very good at deathbed thoughts.

Do I put a title here before I get started? How does one start? 

Jyl’s 2025 Pre-Mortem

No, I agree that seems weird. Anyway, carrying on.

As I approach death, these are my thoughts.

Again, just so I’m not giving the universe any ideas: I am not really approaching death. Or at least I hope I’m not. But I suppose it could come at any time. Oh, jeez.

As I (pretend to) approach death, these are my thoughts:

What am I most proud of? How I show up.

I was given a front row seat, over the last few years, to the importance of showing up. 

I am deeply proud of how I show up. 

I show up, simply put. Whether a close friend, an old friend, a total stranger, or someone I’ve lost touch with–I show up.

This is not something new. I have a long history of showing up.

Showing up is something that I gained a higher appreciation for over the last year–mostly because of those who showed up for me and partly because of those who did not (that’s a story for another blog). 

I show up. 

Again and again, I show up. 

As I lay on my (pretend) deathbed, I know how much that has mattered to those around me. 

What would I have changed? I wish I’d have become fearless sooner.

I wish I’d gained the confidence sooner not to care about what others might think or about the consequences of failure or about how my decisions might make me look stupid. I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time worrying about what others were thinking about me as I’ve learned that, typically, they were not thinking about me at all. 

A real life example is this very platform. 

I went to college to become a writer and then spent three decades not writing because I was worried no one would read it or they would think it was bad or I’d never be the next Judy Blume. Seriously? Who cares? I say that now but I wish I had been brave enough to say that in my twenties. Indeed, there are people who don’t like my writing or that I call myself a writer or that I write at all. Seriously? Who cares?

I’m eternally grateful for my husband and his simple directive of “just write.” He encouraged me to be fearless on paper and that has carried over to other areas of my life. 

I wish I’d have become fearless sooner. 

What will my obituary say?

I mean, I’ll probably write it myself so I imagine the word “fart” will appear at least thrice. 

It’s an interesting thought, one’s obituary. Does it really matter what I accomplished? I suppose that’s great filler but as I lay here on my (pretend) deathbed, I’m more interested in who I will be remembered as a human than what I accomplished. 

I was so loved. (husband/editor’s note: you have no idea . . . )

After my mother died, I learned how loved she was and how far that love extended beyond our mother-daughter bubble. That’s exactly how I want to be remembered, too.

Jyl was loved by so many people. 

Could that be all? Could my obituary end after just that one line? It may be the shortest obituary ever, but really, what could be more powerful, telling, and beautiful?

Someone once told me, “Everyone in your life will have a last day with you, and you will never even know when that will be.” Is that not an incredible thought?

My hope is to make the pre-mortem an annual birthday habit. Because this is the first year I’ve done it, I can’t help but wonder what it might have looked like in years past. What would twenty-year-old me have written? And thirty-year-old me?

It is strange to think about obituaries–especially at an age in which my obituary’s appearance truly could be just around the corner.

Have you thought about yours? What would it say? I mean, just pretend, of course. Right?