I’m sure most of us, above the age of 13, have been advised “don’t take life for granted” or “life is short, don’t take the people you love for granted.” Well if anybody understands the brevity of life, it is I (and those connected to me). However, in order to live, I am finding out that the only way to carry on is to, in fact, take those we love for granted. We have to. We have to consider that we will speak again, see each other again, and fulfill our future plans together. It is imperative for our mental health that we consider the next day will come!
Now mind you, as each next day comes (at rapid speed) I am still trying to grapple with the yesterday gone by. And while in my grappling state, momentary living–living in the moment rather, gets to be a tough concept to abide by. Especially as my life keeps traveling at a rate too fast for me to handle. Check this out…
- Brian and I spend the day with our son, Cole. May 16, 2013
- A telephone call from a sheriff and Cole’s best friend tells us our son is gone. May 17, 2013
- We bury our son at Miramar National Cemetery, San Diego. Dates at this point are escaping my memory
- We leave for a pre-planned (business/pleasure) trip to Europe.
- We return from Europe and turn around and fly to Japan (business/with pleasure attached). July 1-7
- Home from Japan with severe jet-lag, the following Monday (July 15), I begin a new job an hour from my home.
- Here I sit, on my couch, the Saturday after navigating my first week of work.
I have mounds of mail to attend to. I am late paying my visa bill. My toilet is sporting a new “brown color ring” on the inside of the bowl. My kitchen counter looks like a cross between OfficeMax and the grocery store. I have the census bureau sending me threatening notifications about the fact I am “obligated by law” to fill out the form. My laundry is still under the impression that “konichiwa” is the proper greeting of the day. I have phone calls I haven’t made and follow up I haven’t done in connection to the death of my son. We have been offered a historical home to live in, in San Diego (next door to my new job), for free–minus utilities. And while the offer is extremely generous and financially appealing, the idea of it terrifies me. AND–this is a big “and”– I have family and friends who are in sorrow with us and who have been left in the dust of our whirlwind as well.
So when I actually try to get my head around my life, my yesterday, my today, and my tomorrow–I find myself needing, absolutely requiring, that my loved ones, my circumstances, my world, remain intact. I mean it is all happening too fast for me… I have to “take for granted” that they will be here tomorrow, if I am to make it through my today.
Now I must go de-clutter the kitchen counter, put the roast in the crock-pot, cut the fruit so it doesn’t rot, sort the beans and put them to boil, make breakfast for the rousing crew, and fill out the damn census form before John-Law comes a knocking at my door.
Any thoughts from the peanut gallery (a term I use to pay homage to my children–they are my peanuts–and I can still hear Cole’s voice)?