Coronary: (adj) of or relating to the human heart, with respect to health.

There are really only four choices.

There may be varieties—but when you completely boil it down, there are a quartet of ways that life uses to get us off the planet.

And we will leave. How we leave is what is perplexing—and I’m afraid may take up too much of our time contemplating.

You can croak by disease, make your eternal journey by accident, be blown away and murdered, or you can have a coronary—your heart suddenly deciding not only to quit, but to walk off the job.

These four loom and threaten the human race with personal extermination

I am normal (at least I think I am.) I have done my fair share of fidgeting over all the possibilities.

For a while, I didn’t want to watch medical shows on TV because I was in danger of sprouting the symptoms of the diseases they discussed.

There are times when I’m driving, and I envision what it might be like to be rolled over by an eighteen-wheeler.

Of course, in the middle of the night when I hear that sound creaking in my house, I wonder if it’s a murderous Second Amendment advocate, coming to prove to me why I should have a gun.

And because I am a chubby, overweight, even a sometimes-considered-fat fellow, the possibility of my heart disrupting my future plans is never a distant thought.

The problem with all such consideration is that it leads to anxiety.

Anxiety not only robs us of time, but also simulates our death in our mind, wasting precious moments we could be using to, shall we say, literally dodge the bullet.

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