Mortality

     By the time we're eight or ten, most of us figure out that we are not immortal.  And, if we still think we're immortal, we've run smack into the realization that at least some others are not.  But, beyond that, we don't give it a whole lot of thought.  In fact, if we DO give it a whole lot of thought, we'll have been told not to be so morbid and to be happy.   So we toodle along, content in the notion that while death may indeed exist, it exists only for the old or those far away from us.  For the most part.

     There are a few words out there that can change that in an instance, a prime one being biopsy.  Biopsy, along with it's fellow traveler cancer, can bring mortality, personal mortality, into very clear and immediate focus.  There you were, toodling along with your life; working, playing, laughing, loving, wasting WAY too much time on the computer and WHAM you are pulled up short by a six letter word and all the baggage it carries with it.  No more, "don't worry, be happy" because worry has just taken up residence in your brain and whether that residence is permanent or not remains to be seen.

      And so it begins, the biopsy, the inconclusive results, the referrals, the scheduling of surgery, the pre-op check ups and the terror.  No matter how calm, cool, collected, even sanguine one thinks one is, there is a time around 2:45 in the morning when the terror is undeniable.  No one else may see it.  You may even try to convince yourself that it isn't there.  But it is.  And no one, not your mother, not your spouse, not your friend, not even the very nice surgeon that you just met, can say anything to make that go away.  Because while they hope for the best, and can quote statistics, and can assure you it will be fine; ultimately, they can't know that to be the fact until you've moved through the entire experience.

Of course, all of this takes time.  So you have a lot of time to think.  And think. And think.  You realize rather quickly that you are not where you'd always thought you'd be by whatever-this-point is in your life.  You then begin to wonder IF making plans for the future is some sort of magic you are invoking to get through the situation.  Or if, perhaps, you are just whistling past the graveyard and which graveyard is it going to be.   One sinks to the forbidden morbid regions rather quickly.

Before too long, you realize that even IF this isn't going to be whatever it is that will spell your demise, something will and that every day lived is a day closer to that day.  And you begin to wonder what that means for your life going forward.    Between blood tests and CAT scans and this and that, you have quite a bit of time for reflecting.  

And, if you're me, you wonder if any insights you garner through all of this reflecting will be carried through should the surgery and the pathology reports say that the end isn't coming in that particular way in this particular year.  

Mercifully, the pathology reports came back "negative for malignancy."  Now it's time to see how many of the insights remain and where they lead.

Oughts and Shoulds

When I taught English as a foreign language, my students would frequently get confused over the differences between could, would and should. That was probably not surprising given that they rhyme with each other and the shades of meaning can be very subtle. I would explain to them that would was conditional and expressed a desire to do something, if the conditions were or were not met. As in, "I would meet you for dinner, if I weren't broke." Could expressed capability or options, as in "you could do this or that." And that should was used to impose an obligation and frequently coupled that with a judgment if the obligation weren't met. "you should have finished your homework before going out with your friend." And ought was just should on steroids.

It is probably not surprising that I have a strong dislike for 'shoulds.' When someone says to me, "You should.....," the hair on the back of my neck stands up and I tense up in preparation for a fight. It doesn't always lead to a disagreement. Sometimes it is a kind of sideways compliment. "You should do X! You're so good at it." But, generally, I brace myself because I'm about to hear someone's unsolicited opinion on how I should live my life in a way more acceptable to the person making the pronouncement.

In my life, I've been told what I should or should not feel, should or should not think, whether I should be happy or sad, grateful or forgiving, and what I should or should not be or do. And a much younger me dutifully tried to live up to the obligations imposed from the outside, no matter how many contortions I had to put myself through in order to approximate the mold I was supposed to fit into.

As is my habit, whenever I have a strong reaction to something, I try to figure out why I feel the way I do about it and this is no different. I thought back to my history of resenting 'shoulds' and it stretched fairly far back. And in every case where I remember my hackles rising, it was a case of someone attempting to exercise control over who I am or what I wanted to do.

When we are children it is only reasonable that our parents exercise a certain amount of control over us, lest we act like little savages. Obviously, some parents overdo it and the result is usually resentment and rebellion, once we are old enough to do so. But much more insidious are the ways society as a whole, or smaller groups within society, seeks to control people and enlists everyone in exercising this control on others. This happens with small things and larger things almost without our realizing it. The most dreadful aspect is that we are complicit in enforcing that control on ourselves. These little tyrannies shape and control all aspects of our lives to the point that we frequently turn our backs on the lives we would much prefer to live.

Naturally, there are a few 'shoulds' that should be retained, but probably fewer than most people would think. All the usual proscriptions against violence and thievery should be retained simply because everyone should feel safe in their person and their homes. But I propose the addition of some 'shoulds' that enhance life rather than limit it.

Everyone should do things that make them happy. Whether that be "wasting" a Saturday afternoon on the couch reading, "lazily" hitchhiking across Europe, or "irresponsibly" chucking it all to follow a deeply held personal dream.

Everyone should avoid things that do not bring them life. Many years ago, during my last gig as a pianist, I was heartily complaining to someone about how much I hated it and didn't feel like I could quit. She quietly asked me, "Why do you do things that do not give you life?" I couldn't come up with any justification for it, so I dumped the job. Any activity that doesn't bring joy and animation to life, probably should be dropped. It might not lead to great riches, but it just might bring great peace.

Everyone should have some personal dream that they aspire to no matter what. Once we allow ourselves to be buried under the daily grind, we slowly disappear into that grind and lose sight of ourselves. And that cannot be a good thing in any way.

And everyone should reach for these things as long as we live. Sure, it might lead to what looks like destruction or chaos. Monetary security could be lost. Relationships could fade. Others might heap on criticism. All because we march to the tune of our own lives. But, at the end, it simply has to be better to have lived one's real life.

"One's real life is so often the life that one does not lead." -- Oscar Wilde.

Busy-ness

We could all probably offer any number of proverbs encouraging people to be industrious and to avoid idleness, to be practical and to work hard. We've heard since we were children that we shouldn't just sit around, but that we should DO something. We brag about how busy we are and qualify any enjoyable activity with "just" -- just reading, just thinking. There are even public service announcements encouraging us to sit down and have dinner with those we love. We're too busy to write, too busy to talk, to get together, to take a break, to live our lives. How did we come to such a state and why? I'm not sure I know even after observing the phenomenon for many years. It's as though we've hung every notion of our self-worth on how busy we are.

I'm not a historian so I can't pinpoint when this snowball got its start careening downhill. But it seems that each technological advance or labor saving device designed to make our work easier has, in some sense, taken away more of our time. There appears to be something in us that will not or can not say enough is enough. And I have been just as guilty as anyone.

When I was a stay at home mom, it wasn't enough for me to be chief cook and bottle washer. I sewed and baked, wove and knitted, did the driving, took care of the children and became the queen of all volunteers. I felt guilty for going away two or three weekends a year as if I didn't deserve the time off. And I wonder if that might be a part of society's endless pursuit of productivity, guilt.

But I also suspect that this false virtue of busy-ness is a type of drug that muffles the more frightening aspects of our lives. By being too busy we can avoid introspection and any harsh realties that might disrupt our lives. We can sidestep risks that might make things messy. But we also avoid reaching for what might bring us joy and fulfillment. My busy-ness enabled me to pretend that I felt valued, appreciated and loved. It kept me from recognizing unacceptable situations and chronic unhappiness. It made it easy to waste a part of my life.

We've all heard the story about the man on his deathbed who laments having worked so much while living and loving so little. But, having heard it, have we truly considered it? Are we so certain that we will not be that man? What would you do if you weren't so eternally busy? And why aren't you doing it?

Risky Behavior

For literally decades, wherever I've worked, be it at home, a cube farm or a classroom; I've had a quote from some unknown wise person posted where I could see it frequently. "Those who risk nothing, risk much more." It has always had the feeling of a bone-deep truth to me and thus, it is surprising for me to realize how reluctant I have been to follow through on this perceived truth.

Until the last few years, throughout my adult life, I have, in fact, done the exact opposite and avoided every sort of risk. I chose the security of a lifeless marriage over the risk of financial instability and emotional solitude. I never dared to risk social censure by saying no to requests that I did not want to agree to. I never had the audacity to ask for what I truly wanted, needed. My hopes and dreams were locked tightly in the cage of "Someday" from which they would never escape or be released to take flight.

Then came the much vaunted awakening of my fortieth year. And the first of the risks took form. I abandoned the lifeless marriage, accepting the financial instability that was sure to follow. And agreed to the emotional and physical solitude that I had so much dreaded. Still a fledgling at the art of risk, I thought I had risked enough. I thought wrong. More, much more, lay burbling beneath the surface, waiting for me to catch my breath.

I was still thinking in the old, acceptable patterns, not even imagining that I would bolt even further from the permissible norms. I settled into a nice respectable job because one must have a job with benefits and not entertain pipe dreams. Even if that nice respectable job eats you alive and makes you weary of life. One simply cannot do without health insurance and a 401K. So on I slogged.

Then, came the day when accepting the unacceptable became impossible. And I quit the job. Without a replacement in sight but knowing that I had to walk away. It took three long years for that awakening to occur. So I leaped without a net, thinking in vague terms that I would find "something" or do temp work. Anything but stay where I was.

I still hadn't quite got the risk thing. A partial risk is no risk at all. It's an all or nothing proposition. Fortunately, it only took about a week for me to figure out that I wasn't done leaping. Due to some residual income and a generous subsidy from my mother, I am now taking the largest risk of my life so far. The risk of being a writer and, more importantly, the risk of being fully myself. Perhaps, I should be fearful. But the life I led for my first forty years has made me dread another forty years of the same respectable, "normal," unfulfilling existence. I don't want to be an old woman sitting in a rocker who could have, would have, should have dared to live her true life.

My great grandmother used to ask the question, "When you get to be old, do you want to regret what you did or what you did not do?" Clearly, I have finally, at long last, embraced the risk of failure and regret for the chance at being fully myself.

And, although I've only just now removed the training wheels of risk taking, I am curious about what I will risk next.