My father was a scientist. He called himself an agnostic, because the existence of a supreme being cannot be either proved or disproved. (He was also one of the smartest people I’ve ever known, which probably explains why deism, in otherwise smart people, mystifies me.)
We used to talk about death, and time, and life after death (all the stuff I now write about here); we even once tried to design an experiment that would somehow be triggered after he died. But we never got around to finishing it, and then he got lung cancer.
We never talked about his dying, even though every time I saw him I’d remember that unfinished experiment. He was in denial.
Three months later, when he was only 64, he was dead. His last words, to my mother, were, “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?” she said.
“Ready for the experiment.”
He would have been 96 today.