I wrote about this prompt many years ago, and I thought I would dust it off and see if my thoughts have changed over time. I’ve put my updates in italics.
My initial thought was: Morbid prompt, much? Yup, still a morbid prompt. Morbid though it is, it also got me to stop and think about how I’m spending my time. I have decided that I’m going to be transparent and open on this platform (that platform being my personal blog and on Medium.com), so despite my initial nerves, I’m going to go ahead and post about one of the deep tragedies of my life. I have already read so many painfully honest stories on Medium, and I have found a lot of beauty, and insight, and wisdom -- maybe my own story will bring insight to someone else.
So, here goes. This is a loaded prompt for me. It immediately brings to mind my final year with my sister. She died 6 (12) years ago (oh my god, has it been that long already), only 35 and with two young children. She was just ready to start her life. She had about a year after her diagnosis of stomach cancer to the day she died. What did we do together when she found out? All the movies and books you read show tearful montages of people and loved ones methodically going down a bucket list. Well, it’s not that simple of a thing to just break out your bucket list and check off each item. We spent most of the beginning of that final time fighting to see if she could get more years, even more months to live. We spent it denying the fact that she had been given a terminal diagnosis. And then, of course, as the disease spread throughout her body, simply walking or eating or drinking became impossible.
Here is where I let out a long sigh. Whenever I think of death, I am brought back to that nightmarish time. Will writing about this (which I have done over and over from so many different angles) allow me to step back and approach the topic without all of this baggage? I don’t know.
So, to the task at hand. What if I were to find out that news? Here’s another update from my old post: I almost did have to go through this exercise last year when I went through a breast imaging scare (I wrote about that long process dragged out by stupid bureaucracy in an earlier blog post). During that scare, I spent more time stressing over doctor’s appointments and worrying about job pressures than I did following my own advice below. Sigh. Maybe next time I’ll follow this lovely outline instead.
I suppose I can imagine that perhaps I’m watching the news, and we’ve learned that climate change has progressed to the point that certain death is inevitable within five years. The arctic will melt away. The oceans will rise. Storms and droughts will rage and ravage the land. Seems like we’re well on our way to this dire future already. But we have five years until the end. What will I do?
I’m going to assume that I still have this life, this profession (Yet another casualty of the intervening time between now and the original post. I have lost my job in the 2023 greedy round of tech layoffs that have hit so many. I view this as a fortunate update though. While I launch myself into the freelance space, I am thoroughly enjoying being my own boss. I work long hours with new anxiety about when I’ll get my next client/job, but it feels good to be doing work for myself. Even given this change, I would still do the following things.), this family.
I would pause. I would play more family games with my sweet, sweet daughter and my loving husband. I would take more moments to just stop. Just stop and look deeply into my husband’s eyes, holding each other and ignoring the chaos around us. I would stop and tell my husband how much I love him when he comments on his love of the golden hour, when sunlight falls soft like syrup on the waters up at our lake house in New Hampshire. I would stop what I’m doing, put down my laptop and listen deeply to the full story that comes whenever my daughter says, “Mom, guess what?”
I would keep writing. I would teach myself to draw. (I love coming back to this post after six years when I first wrote it for Blogger.com because I have indeed taught myself to draw and to paint. And I am now writing as well!) I would go back to playing piano every day. I would stop and read.
Now that I’m writing all of this, I have to ask why did I stop doing all of this in the first place? So much information swirling around me nonstop. I open the spigot by swiping through my Twitter or Facebook timeline, and I lose myself in news other people are making or living. It seems very clear to me now that I stopped a lot of this because of extreme work stress.
Still, that’s not entirely true. Rather than thinking about what I’m going to do, which will happen regardless of whether I plan it or not, perhaps what I will first do is to stop and quietly remember the life that I have already lived. The time I spent traveling the world with my family, my mom, my dad, and my dear sweet sister, living in Southern California, Hawaii, and Okinawa. To the years of exploration and adventure with my sister as we attended UC Berkeley together. To my first forays into adulthood as I met my husband and traveled to Vegas and Paris and then eventually left Berkeley for Boston. To the many trips I have taken to Germany, France, Italy, the Bahamas, Bermuda, Thailand, Australia, Botswana, Kenya, South Africa, the Philippines, Hong Kong, Amsterdam, England. To the life-changing birth of the light of my life. To raising her through her first illnesses, to watching her take her first steps, her first laugh, her first bite of rice cereal. To crying as I went back to work. To nervously taking her to kindergarten, little girl so grown up with her school supplies in her backpack. To having conversations with her about how Santa is real and can do magic and how magic is real. To talking with her about her first crush and attending her wonderful piano recitals. To helping her study for math and science tests.
Is this what we do when we think we will die soon? Look back on the life we have lived? I have lived. I have loved. I have been loved. That is enough.
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