*So, what happened?”  

The usually easygoing Andy sounded a tad anxious, and not simply because he was calling from L.A.’s treacherous 405 freeway,  which, he said, by late afternoon was already a parking  lot.  No, Andy’s angst was for details.  

Earlier in the day, word had spread that a friend of ours had passed suddenly.  The email forwarded among our circle didn’t say much more than a seemingly healthy 47 year-old Tim had died  unexpectedly at  home in Boulder, Colorado.  He and Michelle had moved there  ten years ago, after selling their shares in a Los Angeles restaurant where Tim was chef.

Andy already knew all that.  Like the rest of us, he thought it a crying shame that, just like that, Tim was gone. We were stunned and saddened.  

But Andy,  in his grief and selfish disconsolation, was impatient to know the same thing two other buddies of ours who’d phoned me earlier wanted to know:  HOW did Tim pass?

Call it a stubborn, penitent nod to impermanence or  plain,  ol’ stark fear, but when we who have reached a certain age in life  hear about other people departing around a certain age–okay,  around OUR age–we tend to want to know how those  people went.   

We want to know in hopes that  the  information will somehow offer an indicator as to  where we  stand  in  the menacing  shadow of mortality.  Had he been sick?  Did she have a history of that?  Driven by a foreboding and curiosity  rivaling superstition, we forage for any details that will allow us to take ourselves out of death’s equation.  On Andy’s  shoulders rested the added weight that he and Tim were both 47.  Sometimes,  age is too much to have in common with a  dead man.  

I told Andy I didn’t have any  specifics on Tim’s situation.  Silence. “Well, you know,” he began, ramping up any theory that might separate  him and our friend’s  circumstance, “Timmy been kinda sickly ever since that snakebite  at  Yosemite a couple years ago.   Remember?”  PLEASE, remember. Cosign this.    “After  Yosemite,   anytime I talked to him he was  getting over something.  I think that bite had  something to do with this….”   

Maybe.  Maybe not.   But among my buddies,    complications from a  snake bite–or being dragged off his driveway one morning by wild dogs;  sucked inside a flying saucer or  kidnapped by  the Russian Mafia,  ANYTHING unlikely to happen to most of us–beats the hell out of hearing that Tim suffered a  stroke, succumbed to the Big C  or  any garden variety dread that could happen to just anybody.  Namely one of us.   

It’s what happens when you  grow up: you have friends who pass away.  Sometimes, they’re not old and appear just fine.  Sometimes, they’re your age.  That’s when it feels weird.  It is an emotion that  requires  specialized reconciliation.

My friends and I  don’t  wish  anyone ill.  But if we get news  that someone in our age group is suddenly gone,  inside the second(s) before we hear HOW they went,  there is  absolutely no harm in imagining the cause of death was from trying to cohabit with bears or falling from the roof of a  moving vehicle while declaring themselves “King of the world;” while cooking up a batch of exploding meth or ANY other reckless, stupid shit that I’m not going to  be caught dead doing.  

We’re not paranoid.  Most of my contemporaries  have discovered that middle age–a surreal  state that as late as our 30s sounded ancient to us–is pretty cool.  By your 40s, it’s clear:  you’re officially an adult.  You’re going to stay an adult, there is no going back.

Turns out, the subsequent  adventure–the  lessons, revelations and epiphanies–are eye-opening,  enriching, sanctifying.  Middle age just might be the most wonderful part of human life.

However,  middle age is also undeniably the portal to “old.”  And we know what  comes after that.   But while  the ever exalted  “natural causes” sounds like the appropriate way to leave this dimension, we don’t want it happening sooner than what we deem fair.

The older we get, the older the “only”s get, as in, “She was ONLY 68 when she passed.”  By your  40s and 50s,  you  know how fast time flies; you know that 68 is nowhere away.  

Thus,  a  certain age brings on a quiet, instinctual sentry.  You keep an eye on how other middle aged people go.  

Among my group, word of someone’s  sudden  demise can launch  a stampede of   hastily scheduled  doctor exams. Heart attacks are suspect:  how’d that happen to him?  Please, God, let it be crack, and not Haagen-Dazs.  

Indeed, to my posse,  the worst  passings aren’t made of plane crashes or drive bys  (you can wear a parachute and return fire, respectively), but  those that  happen  in the wake of  doing  things designed to keep us alive: “…They said  dude came in from a workout at the gym and just dropped….”  

Of course, the enduring notion is that we should be so busy carving out for ourselves such a healthy and fabulous existence–everyday squeezing the absolute nectar from this  life–that we don’t have to time to fret about its end.   

Try telling that to Andy.  After spending his evening making calls and emails, he  learned that Tim hadn’t met his fate at the end of a lightning bolt or by choking on a sandwich while eating in bed.  Tim gypped us all: according to Michelle, he went peacefully in his sleep.

“In his sleep,”  Andy repeated to himself with a certain disdain after he’d told me.   I understood his frustration.  With no definitive cause of  death on which to hang our perturbation,  exactly what are we to live in fear of?

Andy didn’t take any chances.  The week Tim passed, he gave up pot and got a colonoscopy.  And, just to be safe,  he canceled his membership at the gym.

Steven Ivory’s book, FOOL IN LOVE (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster)  is available at Amazon.com (www.Amazon.com).  Respond to him via [email protected]