Dear Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg:
Girl, how you doin’? Seriously. Feeling OK? Need your wee shoulders rubbed? Can someone get you a smoothie? Something with a lot of iron and chia seeds perhaps?

Whoa. Whoa. WHOAAAAA. Put down that cheeseburger. Yes. I know it looks delicious and you’re 85 and should be able to eat anything you want but, well, how can I put this? We need you to stay with us.

As a nation, we are the emergency room doc putting the paddles on your tiny, fierce body and screaming: “HANG IN THERE, JUSTICE GINSBURG! DON’T LEAVE US!”

You think you want to go to the white light? Not so fast. If you go there, we’re all going to be plunged into eternal darkness. No pressure.

And you’re not going to suddenly decide to retire, right Ruthie?

None of that “I need to spend more time with my family” crap. No “I’ve served for a bazillion years and I’m tired…” No, girl. It’s a lifetime appointment, which apparently Anthony Kennedy didn’t read in the fine print. LIFETIME. This isn’t, say, a Harley-Davidson factory, where you’re working and all MAGA-hat wearing one day and the next, well, you aren’t. You’re a Supreme for life!

If something does happen to you, this is my solemn vow. Those of us who are EXTREMELY concerned (as in breathing into paper bags most of our waking hours) about another Trump appointment to the Supreme Court will do whatever it takes to keep you going.

Think Liam Neeson and his “specific set of skills.” Or, to borrow an even more powerful movie reference, “Weekend at Bernie’s.” Yep, we are going to prop you up even if you have, er, expired and no one will be the wiser. Sunglasses and sand dunes, RBG. That’s my everlasting plan for you.

Not forever, of course. Just until you-know-who gets out of office. We just need you to hang in there like a hair in a biscuit. I know you have wicked preservation skills. You beat cancer like it was a rented mule. Good on you. Sorry. When I’m very nervous I lapse into my native language which is hick.

What I’m trying to say is: You got this. We love your guts, your determination and even that weird doily you insist on wearing around your neck.

You’re the brains of the operation, and the heart. Speaking of organs, I just saw a fabulous meme where people are signing up to supply you, dear lady, with any extra organ you might need in the not-so-distant future: heart, lungs, kidneys, liver, brain … makes no never mind. They are lined UP to help you out. Not me, mind you, but others. I’m pretty sure we’re not a match, what with your massive intellect and my solid library of fart jokes.

While we’re on the subject of preserving democracy, tell Kagan and Sotomayor to consider walking 2 miles a day at least 4 days a week. I’ve heard it adds years.

— Wilmington, North Carolina’s Celia Rivenbark is a NYT-bestselling author and columnist. Visit www.celiarivenbark.com.