Live before dying.

One of many visits to the oncologist. Even though he was dying, his eyes still lit up when he smiled. All the little yet intricate details that I missed during this time. Intricate details that I see so clearly now.

When I was kid around nine or ten years old, I caught the stomach bug. In my true-to-form self of that time, I thought I was going to die (remember I was afraid of cancer when I was a young child — if you missed that story you can read it here).

I recall asking my mom if I was going to die as I laid in my bed with the Holly Hobby bedspread, retching into a mop bucket. She replied, “no, people don’t just die.”

I believed that for a very long time. Until it happened to my husband. Until he got sick … and died. It was at that moment I realized that yes, people do indeed just die. Even people we know and love very much. Even though they are young.

They die after a long battle with an illness, even though they fought with every bit of energy they had. They die unexpectedly, seemingly for no reason at all. Perhaps in their sleep. Or from an infection that is hiding out deep in their body. Or in a tragic accident.

They die from a cancer that is so far advanced and in the final stages because there were no symptoms. Or an illness that swoops in and takes no prisoners. Taking your life within weeks or months. A kind of illness that doesn’t allow a fight because there is nothing to be done.

People around me are dying suddenly. Friends, family members, acquaintances. I am not old. It seems too soon, too early. I’m not ready for this. I don’t like it. I myself, have started to wonder when the other shoe is going to drop. Me. The person who lived a carefree life before a cold winter’s day in February of 2022.

At Hospice visiting my dying sister-in-law last month (rest in peace, my sweet Lara). A place that is all too familiar.

I plan on retiring in four years. Not because I dislike my job. Quite the opposite actually. But because Don didn’t get to live beyond the age of sixty-two. Because he didn’t get the chance to retire.

He detested his job and talked often about the day he would be able to close the chapter on that long and thankless career. A job and company that caused him much angst. He talked often about what he would do in the next half of his life. What we would do (everything from t-shirt designer to food truck owner — the ideas flew and I was excited for him to finally love what he did).

Only to have it not happen.

I don’t want that to be me. I like my job and love the people I work with but it’s not enough. I’m not fulfilled. I want to travel. I want to write. Give back to my community. Maybe learn to garden. Take up pottery. I want to spend the time I have left with my people. Doing the things I’ve always wanted to do. Checking off those items on my bucket list. A bucket list my husband didn’t get to complete.

There is too much that life has to offer, that I need to take from. A life I only get one of.

If I don’t do it now, who knows if I ever will.