To me, Fred died the day he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. The man lived for running, not letting anything stop him, ever, like the mail, through rain, sleet and snow. Ten miles a day, despite the near-attack of a fierce, loose dog and battery at the hands of some bored teen-aged boys with bats in 1984. He said he heard one of them say, “Oh, s*&^. This guy’s got muscle!” when they could not put a dent into him.
His body continued to be strong despite the MS. The nurses at Elmhurst Hospital Center rechecked the chart for his accurate age. “Fifty-nine? No way!”
“And such a handsome man!” another flirted, temporarily forgetting his comatose state.
He took care of his health and was probably the only person I’ve known never to gain weight, ever. He smoked when he was younger and just quit, stopping as soon as he decided to.
My sister said he’d always wanted to run on the beach.
It does not seem fair. It seems he had so much more to do. And we had so much more to tell him.
When I received my new job in May 2010, I emailed all my friends and called the one who does not have a computer. “Everyone else knows,” I told Lonnie. “Now I have to call my brother.” Fred was the other computer-less person I knew.
But I never called him.
My last long conversation with my brother was on his birthday in 2009, and it was about intelligence. He was one of the very few I know who value it and can be considered intelligent. We both thought that was our best conversation ever. We talked about how I was coincidentally covering the chapter on intelligence in my psych class that evening, about old friends, about the person's spirit I felt in a house I considered purchasing, about how one person’s life totally touches and influences many others.
As President Barack Obama said on January 12, 2011 at the Arizona Memorial in the wake of the shooting tragedy in Tucson on January 8: *“… let us use this occasion to expand our moral imaginations, to listen to each other more carefully, to sharpen our instincts for empathy, and remind ourselves of all the ways our hopes and dreams are bound together.
After all, that’s what most of us do when we lose someone in our family – especially if the loss is unexpected. We’re shaken from our routines, and forced to look inward. We reflect on the past. Did we spend enough time with an aging parent, we wonder. Did we express our gratitude for all the sacrifices they made for us? Did we tell a spouse just how desperately we loved them, not just once in awhile but every single day?
So sudden loss causes us to look backward – but it also forces us to look forward, to reflect on the present and the future, on the manner in which we live our lives and nurture our relationships with those who are still with us. We may ask ourselves if we’ve shown enough kindness and generosity and compassion to the people in our lives. Perhaps we question whether we are doing right by our children, or our community, and whether our priorities are in order. We recognize our own mortality, and are reminded that in the fleeting time we have on this earth, what matters is not wealth, or status, or power, or fame – but rather, how well we have loved, and what small part we have played in bettering the lives of others."
Call in sick if it means accompanying your spouse to the dentist. It may seem silly to you that s/he is scared, but the fear is real to them. Pull over to the side of the road when your best friend calls you. Give them the time of day and don't tell them you'll call later. Your neighbor may stop by and and say, "Oh, I just wanted to see how you're doing." They may be asking for advice or help. Leave work early, turn off your TV, put down the sports magazine, and listen to your child telling you about the game they played in school. Perhaps you will learn more about that little person who sometimes seems so annoying to you. Perhaps you will learn that h/she is having difficulty in school and needs your support. Do it today. Tomorrow may never come.
*From: http://dailycaller.com/2011/01/12/text-of-president-obamas-speech-at-arizona-memorial-service/#ixzz1Bb7mP7Zb
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