Borrowed time. That’s what the last 12 weeks have sometimes felt like. Especially those first few hours immediately following the aneurysm, when I knew my brain was bleeding and I feared any movement on my part would result in a massive, life-ending hemorrhage.
But even after returning home and beginning the healing process, each day seemed as if it could be just a matter of time before…it all went away. Everything. This life as I know it. And I realized, very quickly, that I’m not ready.
Are any of us truly “ready?” Are you ready to die? Not a comfortable or uplifting question is it? Certainly not one we want to ponder on a regular basis, or with the depth and gravity it deserves. So…are you? Have you seen everything you wanted to see? Accomplished everything you wanted to accomplish? Checked off all of the items on your bucket list?
I would be shocked if anyone said, “yes.” And yet, we should always be ready. We are all on borrowed time. There are no promises or guarantees that our lives on this planet will be long, healthy, happy, or easy. We cannot depend on tomorrow, or later today, or even the next moment for that matter.
People are fond of saying things like, “Live without regrets,” “Live your truth,” “Die knowing you left it all on the table,” “Go out in a blaze of glory,” or the like. Honestly, very few of us will see the end coming or be given ample time to try to prepare for it. We’ll have no notice, no control, no inkling. Just poof. Fade to black. My faith tells me that won’t be the end of my story, but the life I’m familiar with will be no longer. So how do we live like there’s no tomorrow?
Our youngest son is fond of asking random “what if” questions, and he often presents them in rapid-fire fashion. “What if you could only eat one food for the rest of your life? What if you had to choose between living on a deserted island or a planet in space? What if you had to give up one of your senses? Which would you choose?” My husband and I always start our answer with, “Well, it’s impossible to say which I would choose unless I was faced with the actual decision, but for the sake of argument…” Similarly, unless you have been face-to-face with death, it’s impossible to determine how you would react and/or how it will impact your life.
I have no doubts when it comes to knowing where I am going after this life. That is a personal choice and one I am completely confident in. But my faith did not, at least immediately, put all my fears, tears, and regrets to rest. I can tell you, as I was laying on the gurney with blood pooling in my head, tears running down my face, and chest heaving with sobs, my regrets were many. I regretted not hugging my son before I left. I regretted not lingering in that last embrace with my husband. I regretted answering the alarm with a jump out of bed instead of resting my head on my husband’s chest for just a few more precious minutes. I regretted not saying, “yes” more. I regretted allowing others to define my worth. I regretted the wasted time and energy holding on to trivial grudges.
If surviving the aneurysm has taught me anything, it is perspective. Whereas before I let, and sometimes invited, the opinions and actions of others to influence my perception of myself, I am now learning to let that go. I’m letting a lot of stuff go. It’s a steep learning curve and the controlling side of me is fighting the process. But in letting go, I’m discovering what I really want and need to hold on to.
I’m holding on to the kind, encouraging, and supportive words. I’m holding on to the hugs, kisses, and cuddles. I’m holding on to the memories already made and the hope of those yet to come. I’m holding on the last light of each day and the first rays as each morning breaks. I’m holding on to the knowledge that every first can also be a last and that no matter how long we live, it will seem as if our life was fleeting.
For while time itself has no beginning or end, our journey in time does. May the space between our first and last breath be filled with more love, light, joy, and laughter than tears, loss, and regret. May we find our truth and unabashedly share it with others. May we never stop learning. May we never stop loving. And may we never hold on to that which weighs us down, but only to that which helps us fly.
It’s been 84 days. Like a grain of sand on the beachfront of our lives, it may not seem like much. But it has changed everything. And I’m still here. Some would say I’m lucky. I will say I’m blessed. Undeservedly, but thankfully, I woke this morning to another beautiful day. And whatever today brings, I will celebrate it and face it; on borrowed but treasured time.