The Things You Think About When You Are Dying

Regrets are not always what they seem

I’ve always had an expiry date hanging over my head. Statistically, children born with Cystic Fibrosis in the early 70s had an average life expectancy of seven. When I was diagnosed around 18 months, my prognosis was a little better than average. My mother was told there was a 50% chance I would live to see my thirteenth birthday.

Dying young was my fate. So, I always imagined that I would regret the many mistakes I’d made when I was dying. That I’d sit and wonder, what if?

I was thirty-eight when fate finally caught up with my merry dance. I was in respiratory failure, and there was more than enough time to think. I imagine purgatory is like the transplant waitlist.

The five months I spent virtually housebound allowed me a lot of time for reflection. The thoughts running through my head differed vastly from the regrets I thought I’d experience.

I Didn’t Dwell on My Mistakes

They were mine. I owned those mistakes.

Every. Single. One.

Because from every mistake I’d made, I’d learned and grown as a person.

Instead, I sat and wondered about the missed opportunities. The times I’d been too scared to say yes. The times I’d played it safe, stuck to the path. Or the times I’d choose to do nothing until my passivity left no choice at all.

The chances I never took. The risks I hedged my bets over.

They were my regrets.

I’d Lost My Purple Hat

I’d cared too much about what other people thought. It started when I was young. I hadn’t called bullshit on my high-school frenemy.

But most of all, somewhere along the way, I’d lost my purple hat. Because you see, I knew I’d never make 80 — so I started wearing my purple hat at nineteen.

Age 3 | She looks at herself and sees a Queen. Age 8 | She looks at herself and sees Cinderella. Age 15 | She looks at herself and sees an Ugly Step-Sister. (Mom, I can’t go to school looking like this!) Age 20 | She looks at herself and sees “too fat/too thin, too short/too tall, too straight/too curly” but decides to fix herself up as best she can and go out anyway. Age 30 | She looks at herself and sees “too fat/too thin, too short/too tall, too straight/too curly” and decides she doesn’t have time to fix it, but she’s going out anyway. Age 40 | She looks at herself and sees “too fat/too thin, too short/too tall, too straight/too curly” but says, “At least I’m clean” and goes out anyway. Age 50 | She looks at herself and sees “I am” and goes wherever she wants to go. Age 60 | She looks at herself and thinks of all those who can’t even see themselves in the mirror anymore and goes out and conquers the world. Age 70 | She looks at herself and sees wisdom, laughter, and ability goes out and enjoys life. Age 80 | Doesn’t bother to look. Just puts on a purple hat and goes out to have fun with the world. …Maybe we should all grab that purple hat earlier. — Author Unknown

I’d always stated that Cystic Fibrosis did not define me. But somewhere along the way, it had gradually taken over. At nineteen, I was a firecracker, burning bright. I’d go to nightclubs and dance like no-one was watching. I wore riding boots, leggings, and leery men’s shirts (because pockets!). Yet somehow I’d morphed into a woman whose wardrobe consisted mainly of black.

When you sound like a walking health hazard, people stare and comment. Black blends like a cloak of invisibility.

Until then, I hadn’t realized my invisibility cloak had taken more than it had given.

Some say the meaning of life is to reconcile the appalling things others think about you, with the glowing opinion you have of yourself. I realized then I didn’t care what others thought of me. None of them mattered.

Not my high-school frenemy.

Especially not the woman who made it her mission to tell me my excessive coughing was revolting and the entire building talked about me. Or any of the others like her who felt the need to comment on my life.

Their opinions held no sway.

They weren’t important.

Their hold on me was gone.

I was lucky. A phone call with an offer of donated lungs allowed me to have a future.

It gave me a second chance to do things right. To live my life for me. To pull my purple hat back out of the closet.

Not everyone is lucky enough to get a second chance. The time to live is now. Don’t leave room for regrets, and never leave your purple hat behind.

Sandi Parsons is an award-winning school librarian with over 20 years experience working in educational libraries. She lives with her favorite husband and two problem puppies. Her metaphorical purple hat is jammed on tight.

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