The end

This is it. This is how I’m going to die. I just … I don’t know.
I mean, “This is it? This is how I’m going to die?” I would never have expected this. Maybe if I didn’t grow old and die of a heart attack I would have expected something more dramatic. Some memorable event people would talk about for years to come. This - though - this is not what I expected.
It’s not how I expected to respond either. Am I not supposed to see my life flash before my eyes? Shouldn’t I regret all of the things I haven’t done? Why am I not thinking of the people I love? Where is the light at the end of the tunnel?
Instead, I’m just disappointed.
I never thought my ego would be bruised by my death. What does this mean? It can’t just be about how I died, but about how I’ve lived. I must be disappointed with my accomplishments. I don’t even know what those accomplishments are. Have I accomplished anything?
I know I never completed college. I don’t have a career. Never had children, or created anything of lasting value.
Am I a failure, or am I just average?
Maybe the cliche death experiences are for above average people, and the mediocre experience is unspoken for its unremarkableness. There have to be millions of people with similar accomplishments - or lack thereof. Masses of unremarkable people with unremarkable lives coasting through life unaware that they are really disappointed in themselves.
But what does that say about myself, that in the midst of my own crisis I am comparing myself to others? Am I trying to say I did well enough, or am I trying to bring others down to the level of my own resentment?
I must be a terrible person to be judging other people even as I face my own death. Maybe I deserve this ordinary, boring death. I’ve looked down on others for so long I deserve to be forgotten when I pass from this life.