The Next Thirty Years

“We’re all terminal. Some of us just have more information.” - Lee Ludwig Meyers

Lee was a pink sister (what we call fellow breast cancer warriors) who passed away on Valentine’s day 8 years ago. I actually met her for the first time before we both joined the cancer club. She was a performing arts diva. Hilarious. Charismatic. A force of nature. Truly. I attended a performance of hers and was instantly captivated by her presence. Years later I would meet her again at a charity event for breast cancer survivors. She was still as vivacious as ever, only she was bald and wheelchair bound and dealing with a body that no longer matched her spirit.

Lee spent most of the end of her life preparing for her death: cleaning out her place, giving things away, rehoming pets, etc. I often thought it was terrible watching such a bright light fade away. I felt the same about my Mom. Would it be better to die suddenly- without the pain and the suffering and the indignities and the sorrow- or would it be better to know so you can prepare yourself and your loved ones?

True to brand, Lee used her last chapter to share light and wisdom. She was keenly aware that we’re all going to die at some point. She just had more information about how and when.

As I was reminded by the recent passing of my Dad, many of us are arrogant and foolish in believing we have more time. I had planned to spend an extended period in California- precisely to be near my Dad and family- when my work load becomes more manageable in August. Now, I’ll spend that time missing my Dad. I just didn’t have enough information. Or, maybe, I should have always loved my Dad like he wouldn’t be here tomorrow. That’s how we should love everyone, right? But that isn’t something I’ve gotten good at doing. Not yet.

My Dad knew he was slowing down. None of us had the information about his late-stage lung cancer. I don’t think my Dad would’ve wanted to know. Instead, he controlled what he could with the information he had. He ate the right foods on schedule (he’d managed his diabetes purely with lifestyle for 30 years), went to the fitness center every day to get his exercise in, showed up to his doctors appointments, and did all the things he thought he should be doing.

There were so many times- when we were recently in the hospital- that the medical staff asked if Dad was a smoker. He was for 30 years, but hadn’t smoked for three decades before he died. When Dad knew better, he did better. That took him to the age of 85. And, up until the past few months, he had a good quality of life. I feel that’s because he really did try to take good care of himself. It wasn’t always easy. The man barely knew how to make a sandwich when Mom died 12 years ago. Still, he persevered. And I believe we had him for as long as we did because of the decisions he made 30 years ago.

Without having any information to the contrary, I’m planning to have another 30 years of life. At least. And I want them to be good years. Healthy years. Joyful years. Adventurous years. Productive years. The best years of my life. I realize, though, that I’m going to have to invest in those years now. Priorities are going to have to change if I’m going to have the quality of life I want for the years I have left.

“We’ve got more life behind us than ahead of us,” my lifelong friend reminded me. She’s absolutely right. And while the tendency may be to feel depressed about aging, I’m going to use that wisdom to light a white hot fire under my own arse.

I’ve been working on the mind, body, spirit thing for a while. But, I need to start taking some accelerated courses. I’m glad that- after losing a lot of weight over the last year- my blood work is perfect for the first time in a decade. I’m also investing more in working out, drinking less, eating well, and remaining physically independent. My husband is always trying to do kind things for me, like opening containers and carrying heavy items. He wants to and he gets frustrated when I shrug him off. It’s because- and I say this all the time- “I want to do these things so I can keep doing them. I don’t want to lose it because I’m not using it.” I feel like I’m on a decent trajectory with the body thing.

The mind and spirit, though… yeah, that’s where so much growth is possible. And I really think it requires reminding myself that we are all terminal. It’s not a doom and gloom perspective. It’s more of an exclamation point at the end of: I LOVE THIS LIFE AND THE PEOPLE IN IT AND I WANT EVERYTHING I DO TO SHOW IT!

This growth I seek is going to require saying yes only to what’s good for me, and saying no to everything else. My grief has made the “no” part a little easier. I honestly don’t have the emotional bandwidth for much right now; especially not for nonsense. So, I’m only applying my limited energy to what makes me feel more alive: my faith, my little family, writing, music, cooking, gardening, planning adventures, deep conversations with people I love, moving my body, leading with humanity, hugs (so many hugs), handwritten cards, and making others feel seen.

The other night I stayed up late laughing with my husband and listening to 80s funk music as I texted my lifelong friend to help with the playlist. I had to get up a few hours later to work an insanely long and challenging day. Was that responsible? Hell no. Was it the best I’ve felt since my Dad was first hospitalized a month ago? Absolutely yes. And if you haven’t listened to “Word Up” in a while, you probably should. You’re welcome.

They say you shouldn’t make any significant life decisions when you’re in active grief because you’re operating at a neurological deficiency. I don’t know if I agree. The gift of grief is perspective. It’s clarity. It’s unvarnished truth.

We’re all terminal. One day- maybe even tomorrow- your one unique and incredible life will come to an end here. Don’t you want to love and live the absolute hell out of it before that happens? I know I do. Fully living this life that God gave us is a love letter to Him. Like everything I write, I want it to be long and deep and full and unflinching and messy and bursting with love.

We're all terminal. Now I know what to do with that information.

Xoxo, B