It’s Easier To Appreciate Life When We Realize We’re All Going To Die
We might as well enjoy ourselves while we still can
This week has been all about appreciating the people in my life while they’re here. I keep getting not-so-subtle reminders that we don’t live forever, and it’s changing me.
My daughter stayed home from school for five days with what we think was mononucleosis (mono)— wasting away, it seemed. She’s already lightweight for her age at a mere 61 pounds, and was down to skin and bones after not eating. I saw her ribs, her hip bones jutting out. It scared the crap out of me. I was worried she was going to starve to death.
The black circles under her eyes reminded me of my second-grade school photo — the retake at my new school. I was malnourished from my birth mother’s neglect but fortunate to move in with my dad and get healthy.
Watching my child shrink down to 55 pounds was traumatizing. My childhood fear of starvation seeps into my parenting, and it’s not always reasonable. I kept checking myself, wondering if I was over or underreacting.
She’s turning 12 in a few weeks. She’ll be fine, right? Children aren’t supposed to die before their parents, but they can. Her condition, albeit temporary and treatable, gave me pause. What if her iron supplements aren’t enough and she has underlying issues I don’t know about?
I made her a smoothie, peanut butter toast, and Trader Joe’s cocoa almond spread with apples as a high-fat sweet treat. That helped get some calories into her as she got her energy back.
She started eating more and gained a few pounds back in a short time. We had those days to bond, too. Although it was hard to watch her struggle, I’m grateful for our time together.
I thought middle age would magically grant me acceptance of us being ephemeral. However, I realized I’m only human after all. We all want to defy death sometimes. We certainly want to keep our kids alive.
I’m not afraid of dying. It’s the suffering that haunts me. As a healthy, almost 52-year-old woman, I see myself living another twenty or thirty years. But anything could happen between now and my 80s. I could have a stroke, heart attack, or inoperable cancer. Or my mind will stop working, and I’ll be screwed and confused.
I could go blind or deaf or lose a limb, but I’d manage as long as my mind stays sharp. I need to problem-solve, analyze, and communicate. Writing infuses me with vitality. If I ever lose my mind, please give me a fatal dose of morphine.
Barring a grave illness or accident, we know our parents will die before us. I accept that none of us will get out of here alive. But I care about others’ mortality more than I realized. I’m in the life stage when my elders will start leaving — even my dad, who I saw as invulnerable when I was young.
He’s having health issues that necessitated a hospital visit. My stepmom is a retired nurse practitioner and gets realistic about health risks and dangers. When I expressed concern, she echoed that it didn’t sound good. That can only mean that she was worried, too. I hung up the phone and cried.
After a few blood tests and a procedure, he survived another day. But he will eventually leave this mortal coil. Even my dad isn’t exempt.
Once I recognized my finite existence, I believed I would accept others dying, too. But the truth is, I’ll miss them, and I want to keep them here. I also want them to have the gift of dying without suffering. I don’t want my dad to be sick. Our bodies don’t last, though, and we don’t like to think about that much.
We all could die tomorrow, so why do we assume we have unlimited days? What and who we care deeply about will one day be gone, yet we ignore our fates and make mindless choices.
It wasn’t that long ago when I acted as if I were immortal. Twenty years ago, I’d drink too much and snort too much white stuff, and trusted too many random people to bring me more mind-altering substances. I was a mess, but I cheated possible death several times.
Now that I’ve been living sober, I recognize our beautiful short stories. We write our plot, leave our mark, and then we’re gone. So why not enjoy the ride?
We’re eight billion tiny ants marching toward death on a seemingly massive planet. Yet Earth is minuscule compared to infinite space. Evidence of human existence goes back 300,000 years. We only live an average of 75 years, which is not as long as it feels.
We’re only here for a blink of an eye. Anything could crush us at any moment, yet we refuse to believe it. We take for granted those people in our lives who matter most. There are no guarantees we won’t get smashed like a bug at any time.
Imagine being the bug. Although I doubt their ability for complex thought, I’ll bet if they do think about life, they don’t waste it. They live in the moment until their last moment passes.
Humans are fragile, no matter how much we deny it. We all grow old and die, and some of us don’t get to live long. We have precious, fleeting moments with each other and then we’re dust.
As each year passes, it feels like life speeds up. It’s true what they say about putting off until tomorrow what you could do today. If all you had was today, wouldn’t you want to go for it?
By the time I’d processed what I’d witnessed and experienced this past week, I felt lighter. I listened to Michael Franti yesterday, crooning about hugging someday once a day. I floated into PetSmart, positively buoyant, enjoying every moment.
My daughter is on the mend, spending too much time on her iPad, as usual. I took her and her sister to watch traces of the solar eclipse this morning, acting goofy and posing for selfies. I think she’s going to be okay. I spilled yerba maté on my hoodie and shrugged it off. In the larger scheme of things, who cares?
My dad, a 77-year-old former telescope technician, told me he only saw it half occluded down in California. The moon, sun, and earth were aligned today, and that’s all that matters. My mom sent an update that he’s doing well, with another procedure next week. I think he’s going to make it to 78, thank god.
If you want to get the most out of your 80-plus years here, try to let go of insignificant trifles and laugh at the silliness of it all. Eat too much cocoa almond spread. And if you haven’t hugged someone today, do it. Because today is calling you to embrace life until one day, you’ll die with a smile.
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