When President Donald Trump did not appear in public view for four days in August, social media quickly erupted with speculation. Rumors spread that he had died, and amateur internet sleuths raced to connect dots that weren’t there. But I don’t blame the amateur internet sleuths. Not after the Washington press corps missed President Joe Biden’s health issues, either neglectfully or intentionally. The internet was filling a credibility gap. This reminded me of an earlier era, when rumors circulated in 1969 that Paul McCartney had died in a car crash and had been replaced by an imposter. The conspiracy theory claimed that a hidden message in a Beatles song, if played backwards, confirmed that McCartney was dead. McCartney is still with us, and at age 83, older than Mr. Trump, who is 79.
These stories reveal a universal truth: We are uneasy with mortality. Iowa Sen. Joni Ernst was right. We are all going to die. Her big mistake was forgetting that we don’t like to be reminded of it. Was that politically tactless remark the reason Ernst announced she’s not running for reelection? Mr. Trump is said to dislike reminders of his birthday, but he has not been immune to such reflections. In a recent call to “Fox & Friends,” Mr. Trump openly wondered whether he would get into heaven after he dies. That must have been a shock to MAGA, which treats him as something like the messiah, but if you believe in an afterlife and are approaching 80, it sounded more like total transparency.
Statistics remind us that the average life expectancy for American men is about 76 years. Rock and roll will never die, as the saying goes, but human beings — whether rock stars or presidents — ultimately do. Mortality is the one term limit no one can escape.
Philip Wasserman
Stevenson Ranch
