My Uncle Frank had been diagnosed with brain cancer and only had thirty days to live. Our whole family went to visit him on his ranch in Montana. Another twenty or thirty people were there, wishing him well, crying and laughing about old times. When we left my mom made me go say goodbye to him. He gave me a big hug, “Death aint shit partner,” he winked, raising his glass of bourbon. I was all of 10 years old.
A few months later some distant Great Aunt Gertrude called up and said Frank had made the whole thing up. He was fit as a fiddle, just a bit lonely and maybe had a bit of a drinking problem. I thought it was all pretty funny but all the adults got real mad about it. So much so that Frank ended up killing himself with a shotgun. “I hope yer all real happy,” the suicide note read, “and PS death still aint shit.”
And thats what it says on his tombstone. “Death aint shit.”
