What a cliche’ term right? Biblically, we are promised somewhere between 70-80 years which currently seems to be a fairly accurate average I suppose. Very broadly speaking. We all know someone who has exceeded those limits, or sadly, did not. But we’re not here to play with semantics tonight. Instead I want to reflect on the quality of those years over their quantity.
My mom ended up shorting herself 6 years when cancer took her at 64. I don’t blame the cancer. Not really.
Because guns don’t kill people, bullets do.
For the majority of my life I watched her burn herself, working 3-4 jobs. Her normal 3rd shift 40 hours at one hospital. Weekend 12-16’s at another facility. Extra 8s during the week at a 3rd when they needed. Her “1 weekend a month, 2 weeks a year” for the Army Reserve.
At first I am sure it was necessary to make ends meet. To pay tribute to the holy “grind” that American life commonly demands of us. I’ve been there myself, I understand. She’d often say during times of stress “You don’t see me out on the street selling myself do you?! I work because it’s the only way I know how to pay these bills!” This piece is not to litigate or have an AAR about her life, or the consequences of her choices for that matter.
See, she had dreams too. Big dreams once. She’d always say that if she hadn’t had me (I was an accident lol) She’d have been one of those “degree collector” types, perpetually in school, getting degrees like merit badges. She had wanted to travel, to explore this grand creation around us. A version of her wanted to get married and have a thousand kids. Another desired land and property. When I came around she pivoted, settling into increasingly lesser versions of such dreams, until in time all she had left was faith and the remote hope of a lottery win.
The grind is ever hungry, and it suffers balance as one would an allergic reaction. Though devastating to me, her life concluded as a non event in the great scheme of things. When I got home from the hospital, having just said my last goodbye the phone rang. A bill collector asked if they could speak to her about some trivial debt, and when I replied that she had just passed, the collector pivoted and asked if I would be willing to make payments on her behalf. By then I am sure housekeeping had already turned over the hospital room for the next patient.
Stress is a poison. Insidious in its progression, terminal in its prognosis. Windblown sand against stone, wearing us down until what’s left has lost its edge. Thinning out the very aspects of us that give meaning to our lives until all that’s left are hopes that others can enjoy the lives we may have once wanted for ourselves. Whether it’s a heart attack, cancer, stroke, or some other eventuality, chronic stress will eventually demand its due. And it does not ask politely.
We compromise against ourselves. Promises to catch up the sleep we’ve been shorting. The too much coffee, nicotine, booze or a thousand of other bargains struck that we make to cope, but no longer enjoy. If we ever actually did. Not as an effort to pursue joy, but to make existence more tolerable.
I wrote this not to chastise, or vilify *anyone.*
I’m just tired of seeing too many lives ending without having actually lived. Poured into jobs that would replace you the very afternoon they shuttled your body down to the morgue. I wanted to shine a light and humbly ask you to take a good long look at your life and ask if you’re happy. If the life you lead brings you fulfillment. To ask you what you do for fun. When the last time you had a restful night sleep was. Did your last dream have you waking up with a smile on your face.
You don’t have to answer.
Not to me.
Just please remember to put the safety back on.
-KC