Truth to tell, the notion of earthly immortality has its less attractive aspects, such as the shortened periods between doctor visits and the increasing number of nocturnal trips to the facilities. If an arithmetical progression comes about, one can reasonably expect the platinum years to be equally divided between waiting rooms and bathrooms.

In further truth, the only known alternative (that "D" word) is off-the-chart-bottom in desirability. Although nobody denies the inevitability of eventually buying the farm, most folks regard it as a subject no more attractive than festering sores.

Woody Allen may have expressed it best: "I have no fear of death; I just don't want to be around when it happens."

Attempts to extend life have recently included the cryogenic crackpots who had their cadavers Birdseyed, in the hope that some future scientist will be able to defrost them and restore their lives. Reportedly, the late Cary Grant consumed animal gonads in the hope that this would extend his terrestrial tenure, but the ball game ended at age 82. (George Burns, relying on cigars and one-liners, surpassed his 100-year goal by three months.)

The bad news, in case you haven't heard it, is that you gotta go sooner or later and you can't take "it" with you, whatever "it" happens to be in a material sense.

You can leave some of "it" behind, limited, however, to such finite things as memorabilia, money, used clothing, property, junk drawers, and undone 'to-do' lists. None of these things, though, will be the 'real you,' and few of them will last much longer than the probate procedure following your croakage.

A more durable "it" is your progeny, which is very much a part of you, and will not only live on, but has the potential to renew itself. Still, those children, grandchildren, et sequentes, aren't really you, either, but unique specimens, merely inheriting some of your genes, quirks and bequests.

So, what sort of genuine "it stuff" can you leave behind? Shakespeare gave us a caveat in Mark Anthony's funeral oration for Caesar: "The good (that men do) is oft interred with their bones."

Cary Grant, George Burns, Shakespeare and other artists in myriad media, left works and thoughts that can, conceivably, live forever (without benefit of refrigeration).

Most of us who write for publication are at least partially motivated by a desire to permanently preserve some of our "it." In an earlier column, I characterized this as Posthumous Existentialism ("I wrote, therefore I was").

Written and/or recorded stuff is one way for anyone to beat the rap of mortality - to speak, in a sense, from beyond the grave, and maintain contact with those still above ground.

I couldn't be more sincere in urging all readers hereof to preserve their thoughts, memories, and beliefs on paper and/or tape. Style and neatness do not matter, but the content can be of immeasurable value to those who will never again hear your voice.

If you think otherwise, ask your spouse, your kids, your friends, your colleagues, and your co-conspirators in good causes. And ask yourself if you don't wish certain others had done so before departing!

One other bid for immortality bears mentioning, and it strikes me as more of an obligation than an option: Organ donation, unquestionably the most valuable form of recycling, is practiced by a minuscule fraction of the people who scrupulously preserve used cans, bottles, plastics, and newspapers.

Daily, megatons of such refuse are given the promise of new life, while millions of human eyes, hearts, kidneys, lungs, pancreases, livers and other vital tissues are consigned to the embalming table or crematorium, and thousands of human beings confront disability and death because substitute organs are not available.

These wasted gifts would cause no pain to the donors, since they are taken from individuals who are legally dead. Why, then, would you and I not readily consent to be organ donors while we have the opportunity? Squeamishness? Selfishness? Superstition? Or merely a WoodyAllen-ish reluctance to even consider it?

If you're not comfortable with your answer, www.shareyourlife.org  is one of several Internet sources of information on making arrangements (it's a snap!). Computerphobes can hear recorded stuff at 1-800-355-SHARE, or may call (804) 782-4920 to chat with a real live person.
Hey, we don't like to think about it, but let's think about it anyway: One thing we CAN take with us when we go is the priceless gift of life to someone in desperate need.

Or we can, regardless of our present age, leave "it" behind to live on.