What Happened to Ricky Fitzpatrick?

By Ricky Fitzpatrick for The Creative South

The other day, I made the mistake of Googling myself. This is always risky, because you never know if you’re going to find a nice article about something you wrote…or in this case, discover that you’ve died.

But right there it was, on the screen, bold as brass…an obituary for Ricky Fitzpatrick.

No warning. No “click here to confirm.” Just: Ricky Fitzpatrick, dead.

I sat there blinking, thinking to myself, “Well…that seems like something somebody would’ve mentioned.”

I mean, I had not felt particularly dead that morning. I made coffee. I brushed my teeth. I argued with myself about the laundry. All classic behaviors of the living.

And yet…Google had spoken.

Of course, dying by Google Search seemed like a very modern way to go, and that was oddly pleasing. Folks used to pass after prolonged illness, surrounded by family. It was decidedly modern that I would shuffle off this mortal coil, as I’m notified by a search engine between ads for orthotic insoles and hair-growth vitamins.

I tried to make sense of it. “Surely,” I thought, “this is not how you find out you’re dead.” Sitting around in my pajamas, Googling myself, wondering why my coffee tastes funny and why it gets dark so early.

If this was death, it was surprisingly similar to a regular Tuesday.

I said a quick prayer (then wondered if you’re supposed to pray when you’re dead), and said, “Lord, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” as I looked around the kitchen at last night’s dishes, “but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when You talked about heaven.”

I started trying to piece together my new posthumous identity.

Had I lived well? Had I traveled? Had I finally learned to stretch before exercising?

Was my funeral well-attended? Oh, I hoped so. I hoped people had driven in from out of town and the music was good. I hoped my friends had remembered me fondly, and my enemies fretted with existential regret.

I wondered if I had left enough behind for Cretia to be comfortable, but not enough that she started wearing furs in July.

I pictured my kids fighting over my wood scrap collection. Because, you never know when you’re going to need a good piece of mahogany.

I wondered if my old guitar made it into a nice display somewhere or if somebody had already pawned it for gas money.

And just as I started getting comfortable with my new normal…I noticed: this particular “Ricky Fitzpatrick” had been 87 and lived in Gainesville, Florida.

Well now.

I am not 87. And I certainly would’ve remembered moving to Florida. (What in the world would Kirby Smart think of me?)

And then, I realized…I was, in fact, not dead. I was simply Googling the wrong Ricky Fitzpatrick.

I tapped my foot on a little terra firma just to double-check, and sure enough, still alive and quite literally kicking.

It was, all in all, a strangely grounding moment. There’s nothing quite like briefly thinking you’ve died only to discover you haven’t. It’s like getting a second chance…although, without the inconvenience of an actual first ending.

So, in case anyone has been asking, “What happened to Ricky Fitzpatrick?”…there you go. 

I would not suggest Googling it to find out, because, well…I’m still here. Still writing. Still making coffee.

And one day (many decades from now, I hope), when I do pass on, I hope I find out early, and Google will be the last one to know.