Don’t worry, it’s not what you think.

During my time in the United States, I spent 15 years coaching at summer squash camps for kids, in New Jersey, Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and Santa Barbara. As I aged and gained experience, my role varied from Junior Coach, to Head Coach, to Administrator, and eventually to Camp Director. Organizing daily court sessions; playing dodgeball after dinner; comforting home-sick kids in the dorms late at night; and waking up to 10 sets of sprints every morning – I was always on duty. When I was younger, I joined in the fitness sessions, but not during my final years as a coach. Too old for that nonsense.

It was a novelty to participate in my first ever adult camp last week in Palencia, Spain. This time as a student, not a coach. And to be coached. And be told to run faster, prepare my racquet quicker, stretch longer, and believe in myself. At 51, it was a bit of a push to expect myself to survive the entire week. It was necessary to take two afternoons off, to recover. I didn’t mind. I don’t feel the need to please anyone anymore – I was always a pleaser, doing what people expected me to do or say, always worried that I might disappoint someone, never taking into consideration what my own needs were.

I love getting older for that very reason. I wonder why it’s taken me so long to reach this phase of my life. Last Friday, on the final night of our camp, Annabelle and I found ourselves at a delightful little local restaurant, where it seemed as if we were the only tourists. It was 9pm at night – late for us to be eating, but we didn’t care. Collapsing onto our chairs, a perfect breeze wafted around us, caressing the skin on our bare arms and legs. Our aching bodies craved nourishment, so we grabbed the menus and started chatting.

You know the sort of conversation you have at the end of a long day, when that first beer goes down super-fast, and it’s just enough to initiate a giddy buzz? Our bums sank deeper into the seats, we browsed the tapas list, not really having a clue what to eat, but we felt damn good. There was local music playing, the vibe was relaxed, and we knew we were exactly where we were supposed to be at precisely that moment in time. We began talking about life. And people. And the world. And what it means to be getting older.

We talked about writing. Annabelle has been contemplating writing lately – boy does she have some good stories to share. I’ve always encouraged her, but without any pressure. When the time is right, and all that…

In the midst of our conversation, she said something that resonated with me immediately, and that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since.

“I don’t want to be lying in my grave, having a chat with myself, asking why I didn’t do all the things I wanted to do”.

Read that again folks.

This simple statement has stuck with me all weekend.

Don’t go to the grave, wishing you had (dot dot dot).

The next day, we flew to Barcelona and had a day to walk around and take in the beauty of the city. I’m not religious at all, in fact I’m quite certain when my time is up, I’ll be spiralling straight towards hell. But, having said that, there IS something about churches that I absolutely love. We stumbled upon a Basilica and immediately ventured inside. It was huge and majestic and magnificent. Some sort of choral chants could be heard echoing throughout. I stood there in awe, inhaling the incense that is so familiar to me. I was drawn towards the candles, and contemplated lighting one for my mum. (Don’t worry, she’s not dead. It’s just a thing Catholics do, right?) But I don’t believe in this stuff – why then, am I so drawn to these structures? Despite my unwavering repugnance of the Catholic Church, there is something very comforting about these establishments, something so very peaceful. I will always go inside. My problem is I often get carried away and start photographing priests hearing confessions, or nuns gathering around a statue of St. Anthony. In fact, I noticed St. Anthony had a mail box in this particular church, as did St. Teresa. Apparently if you put an envelope with some money into their mailboxes, you’ll likely find those keys you were looking for…

I digress, and I apologise to anyone reading this if you find my lack of respect for the Catholic Church offensive. I actually really appreciate that my mother finds solace and comfort in her nightly prayers. If it helps her in times of trouble, then she should carry on.

In a quiet moment, I stood in front of the monstruous crucifix, the Virgin Mary to my left, and the glorious stained-glass windows all around. I couldn’t help but think of what Annabelle had said the day before. “Don’t lie in your grave wishing you’d done the things you’d wanted to do”.

Later that night, lying in bed, I decided to imagine what it would be like.

Dead. But with 20 minutes to have a chat with myself. I figured my monologue would go something like this:

(Now mind you, I do plan on being cremated, so whoever’s in charge, please take note!)

God it’s dark in here.

Yeah, I sort of expected that, and I forgot my lighter.

Why would you have a lighter?

Never mind. It’s comfy though, right?

Actually, surprisingly comfy. Dark though, and a bit stuffy.

Hmmmm…So that’s it then. Life’s over. What’s that? Oh look, a flashback.

Oh, there I am with my mam and dad – that day at Brown Thomas when I finished my piano exam.

There I am again, playing squash for the first time. God I was such a tom-boy.

There I am on my bike, cycling with my eyes closed, landing on the bonnet of the neighbour’s car. (True story).

There’s me as a tree in the school play. (I always got very important parts)

Ah, there’s me on the bus with Nana Byrne, she was lovely. And there’s Hannah. Oh, I wonder if I’ll see her today?

There I am pretending to be an elephant while my cousin Maria sits on the toilet having a poo.

There I am in America, on a table, dancing. (At this point, my arm shoots up for my Dancing Queen routine, only to bash into the lid of this space I am lying in.)

There I am on the top of the World Trade Centre, a month before the 911 tragedy.

There I am doing court sprints at the squash camps in Princeton University.

There I am at my dad’s funeral.

There I am attempting suicide. Twice…

There I am in a mental institution.

There’s me getting married. Twice…

There I am winning the European Squash Championships.

There I am doing stand-up comedy.

There I am in hospital after that mini stroke.

This flashback will go on and on and on. Here’s what I don’t want to happen:

Orla, why didn’t you finish your book?

Why didn’t you make peace with your brother?

Why didn’t you go sky-diving? You had a chance you know. What were you afraid of?

Why didn’t you try sushi? Christ, the number of times you had a chance to try sushi.

Why didn’t you take that trip? Why didn’t you make that call? Why didn’t you get that tattoo? Why didn’t you submit that story? Why didn’t you answer that phone-call?

It’s a privilege to age, to grow old, to be healthy, it’s an honour. How many people have left us too soon? Shouldn’t we live our lives to the fullest in their memory? Or simply live our lives to the fullest FOR OUSELVES? In my last blog, I mentioned going out like a fucking meteor. What will it take for you to light up and do the things you want to do?

It’s no secret I don’t care much for the Catholic Church, mainly because I was banished from the church for being gay, and I spent the majority of my youth in fear of being found out. (Well, not really banished, but I like that word). Not to mention, the rejection from the nuns.  However, I believe in something. There are signs of our loved ones everywhere. All around us. We just have to look. What do you suppose they wish they’d done before they died?

If this blog sounds a little preachy, well it is. If you’re reading this and something’s resonating with you, then try this exercise. It’s a hell of a lot easier than doing goddamn pull-ups or lifting heavy things. Just lie down. And imagine you’re dead. (: It’s very relaxing.

You are given a special 20-minute gift, to have a chat with yourself. The thing is, you’re NOT dead. So doing this NOW, makes complete sense. What things do you ‘wish’ you had done? What is it that you would ask yourself?

As for me, some might say I’m going to hell. It’s okay. I don’t actually believe there IS a hell. Besides, I’ve been known to have the gift of the gab, so maybe I’ll be able to bargain with the devil!

I’m calling it the ‘Death Wish’ exercise. I hope you try it. It’s powerful. My balls of steel feel like they’ve grown from that watering can of a statement Annabelle poured over me on Friday.

Barbara Scully, Author of Wise Up, will attest to the fact that I’ve been nagging her for a month or more, to meet me for a coffee. Well, guess what, after another annoying email, promising her I’m not a weirdo (some might disagree – I don’t care), she’s agreed to meet me!

Love yourself, and allow yourself the choices to do the things you want in life. Don’t wait to have that monologue, lying in a silk-lined box.

Thanks for reading and don’t forget to comment! I love to hear from you all.