Last Sunday, I wrote about the troubled times my family was experiencing. I had two uncles and a cousin in three separate hospitals in three separate states, all with serious medical conditions.

I spent a good deal of time last week talking about my Uncle Tom, who we were losing to cancer. The doctors had told us he had four to six weeks.

By Friday, that time frame had been moved up to perhaps a week. It changed later to three to five days. His multiple cancers were literally doubling in size every 24 hours.

We lost him last Sunday night shortly after 6:00 p.m. His last words were to my aunt, who had told him that she loved him. He mouthed "I love you too," and was gone.

We, his family, are exceedingly grateful that there was so little pain, so little turmoil, and that he was able to go gently and surrounded by love.

I lost both my grandmother and my grandfather to cancer. It was agonizing to watch my grandmother cry out in pain, even from what they said was a coma. She lasted six weeks in that horrible place between death and life, not conscious, not aware, but still hurting.

My grandfather spent the last six days of his life also in that horrible place of not here but not there. Some of his last words were "Hurry up, Jesus!"

This man who had been a minister of the gospel for more than fifty years was ready to go, and tired of waiting.

Because I watched my grandparents suffer, I am so glad my uncle did not have to. His family is in shock because he died so quickly. They thought he was fine, and had no idea that cancer was ravaging his body. They were able to travel extensively. The cancer was there, eating away at him, but they had no idea.

Perhaps, had they known sooner, they could have started treatment, although it’s doubtful that it would have helped in the long run. The cancers were just too many and too aggressive. It may have prolonged his life, but it probably would not have prevented his death.

Three weeks ago, my uncle was on vacation, happy and whole. Two weeks ago, he was in the hospital. He died last week.

Life doesn’t come with a guarantee, nor does it come with an expiration date. We don’t get to know the day that our world will come to a crashing halt because the doctor has discovered devastating news. We can’t keep the police from knocking at our door, telling us there has been a horrible accident and our loved one is never coming home.

It’s not something I choose to worry about, but it is something I choose to be aware of. I have a friend that lost his wife to an accident. He was haunted for years because his last words to her were harsh ones. She was going to be late for work, and he scolded her for still being in bed. If he had left her sleeping, she would not have gone to work. She would not have been killed that day. He wishes he would have told her he loved her, instead of fussing at her for being a sleepyhead.

I don’t know the time or the date of my death or any one else’s. None of us do. It’s why we have to do our very best job, love to our utmost, laugh at every opportunity; make the opportunity to laugh if we have none, and do our best to be our best.

Or, in the words of the country song, we need to "live like we were dying."