I had this bizarre sort of daydream experience about two weeks ago as I was getting out of the shower. I looked into the mirror in the bathroom, and the rest of my life played out in my head. It only lasted six months, because it began with a doctor telling me I was about to die. I went through all of the things that I wanted to, and could, accomplish in that time period, what I was going to say to people, what I was going to finish, what I was going to leave behind. And I realized that there was a lot of things that I'd wanted to have done by this point in my life--not the least of which is saving the world.
I was really disappointed with myself for several days after that, thinking that I was far too lazy, far too much of a procrastinator, and far too likely to get caught up in the day to day "stuff of life" to actually make and carry out long term plans.
Of course, the day to day stuff eventually took precedence over my disappointment, so I got past that. Score one more point to the busy life.
Then, my grandfather died. He's my grandfather on the other side of the family than my grandmother who died two months ago. I wasn't as close with him honestly. He lived across the state, as opposed to around the corner. I saw him mostly at major holidays, as opposed to every day at school. He wasn't as big an active presence in my life. But he was always there. Always.
It's hard to describe my relationship with my grandfather. In fact, I've discovered this week, it's really hard to describe my grandfather. The minister who said the eulugy was asking around for anecdotes, and I couldn't think of any. I eventually realized that the word "anecdote" is itself completely wrong for Grandpa. He was not a man about whom "anecdotes" were told. He was quiet and steadfast. He was the sort of old-school, traditional, Depression-Era, World War II vet, hard-working, family supporting, upright old white guy that never cut loose, never did crazy things, never strayed from the firm line of the path he'd set himself. At least, never in my experience. He was the epitome of constancy to me. He was the guy that the American Dream was written about--culminating in a nice house, a large family, a Cadillac, and a well-used membership to the country club.
He was reserved. I don't think I ever bounced on his knee when I was little. Grandma (his second wife, my dad's stepmother) would run downstairs and play ping-pong or pool with us grandkids at the drop of a hat. Grandpa would take us to the country club, drop us off at the swimming pool and go play golf. He'd take us to dinner, or a drive through the Davy Crockett state park. He didn't
play
with us. He was always just... there. Always.
He was a carpenter. He made things with his hands. A rocking chair. A couple of storage cabinets with roses carved into the front. In their back yard, there were a couple of concrete slabs with shiny stones set into them. When I started collecting rocks as a kid, he chiseled the stones out, put them in a nice box, and presented them to me without show, as though he were handing me a napkin at the dinner table. When I went to Spain in '99, Mom said he asked her several times why I didn't ask him for money. He knew I was saving up, why didn't I just ask him? And I did, and he didn't hesitate to help. In college I did a project about the living history inside my family. I interviewed Grandpa about his life. He spoke about himself in those few hours more than I'd heard him speak about himself in my whole life. It was awesome.
But these aren't anecdotes. They're little pieces that make up the whole of who he was, and they're consistent with everything I know about him. I know I see him differently than my dad and uncles, different from his friends and co-workers, different from his wives. I know I missed so much. I'm sure he was a very different person than the person I knew, but I love the person I knew. And maybe that constancy is so different from my own erratic life that I can't even imagine living like he did, but I respect that he did. I respect who he was. I respect the success of his life.
John, the volunteer director, tells me that it is natural to think about life and death, mortality, morality, and the movement of generations through time, at times like these. John's been really great, actually, these past couple of months, prodding my introvert self into conversations I wouldn't have had, letting me say things I needed to say, and listening, and offering advice and a shoulder to lean on. He lost two grandparents last year. He knows.
Anyway, he tells me it's normal to turn my reflections on my grandparents' lives onto my own life--to think about where I've been, and where I'm going. I was considering my life on the plane, flying to Memphis. I hate flying. I refuse to be afraid of it anymore, but I still don't like it. So this time, as always, I boarded the plane and started thinking about whether or not I was okay in the contingency that the plane crashed and I died. And I truly considered it. I even thought about that weird daydream I'd had a few weeks back, and the disappointment I'd felt at not having yet finished saving the world. And I thought about all the modern day prophets and everything they'd done in their lives and how I'd not managed to do really anything in comparison. And I thought about what I had done. And I thought about my family and friends. I thought about my husband. I thought about the good things about me and the bad things about me, and I was well into the flight before I decided that yeah, it was okay if I died. Maybe I didn't finish everything, but already I've had a good run. My disappointment from before is more based on a comparison to other people's lives rather than on a balanced consideration of my own life. I enjoy my life. I'm sure I'll continue to do so. But if I died, it was okay. My only regret would be the bad timing of my death for my parents. That would really suck for them.
I started thinking that maybe I should tell someone this. I remembered my thoughts when Padre Quinn died (he was the missionary in Saltillo, Mexico where I went in high school--where all this missionary business got started in my own life). I'd thought that I wasn't sad for him, because he'd had a good life and had certainly moved on to a better place. But I was sad for me, and for the people he served, and everyone who knew him, because we were still here, and now we had to miss him. And sitting in the plane, I started thinking that I should tell people that if I died, they shouldn't bother being sad for me because I'd done okay. That they could be sad for themselves if they wanted, if they missed me, but don't lament my own short life, because I wouldn't have.
By the time I got off the plane, my thoughts had moved on to more practical considerations of the matter. How exactly do you go about telling someone that? "I just wanted to let you know that I'm basically okay with dying at any given moment." I mean, to have the thought inside your own head is one thing, but to say it out loud is another issue altogether. It's not a normal thing to say, and it would make people worry more rather than putting their minds at rest. It's funny how saying "Don't worry" has the opposite effect. I'm probably freaking people out by putting this on my blog, but, whatever. For the record, I'm not really dying. So don't worry.
When it comes to death, I don't really know what happens next. I know many of the schools of thought and belief on the matter, but I've never actually been there, so I can't really say who's right. But whatever it is, I think it's okay. Many people have gone before, so whatever is waiting on the other side can't be all bad. All I can really know for sure is the life that I experience now. I know what I feel called to do. I know how I feel when I look back on a day that feels wasted. I know how I feel when I get something done. I know that I have to work to change things for the better. I know that there were many people doing this before me, many people working now with me, and there will be many more in the future.
And I can't regret the lives that any of us live, although I do feel that some of them have been much too short. And I can't help but miss the people that I've loved who have died, even though I know they led good lives. And I can't say that I won't continue to be sad for my grandparents, that I won't be sad in the future for others that I will lose, that I won't miss them terribly or wish they were still here. It's part of living. And as long as I am alive, I will live. And that's why I'm okay.
