| We just never know … |
Tuesday, April 24th, was a reminder day
for me.
You
know, the kind of day that keeps telling you something you shouldn’t ever
forget.
I woke
up out of sorts.
I was
short with Howard (who never, ever deserves that kind of treatment).
I was
cross with my fellow commuters on the road.
I was
curt with my colleagues at the office.
It
wasn’t until almost 11 o’clock that I realized why.
Throughout the month of April, from the
first week when I mentally tracked family or loved ones
with birthdays during the month, I had known, in the back of my mind, that April
24th was coming.
It would have been my mother’s birthday
had she lived to see it.
It was always
a very special day for me too.
A time to show Mom
just how much she was appreciated and loved.
A time to go out of
my way to find that perfect something she’d mentioned wanting to have, just to
surprise her with a gift that said I cared enough to make the effort.
It has seemed strange, all these years, not
to have her to fuss over on April 24th.
This year,
apparently, my subconscious remembered.
It reminded
me that I cannot ever erase the memory of such lovely days as birthdays
celebrated
with my mother.
It reminded
me not to try.
No sooner had I dealt with the reality of
April 24th than the phone rang.
It brought
devastating news, The kind you can’t really comprehend right off the bat.
The kind that
leaves you shaken and unsettled.
A young friend, filled with the promise of a
new career, new wife, new veterinary clinic just beginning
to blossom with patients, had died.
He was only
29.
He was
strong, vigorous, a real health nut.
He was
brilliant, handsome and had every good thing going for him.
He suffered a ruptured aneurysm and was gone
in the blink of an eye.
His beautiful
new building, ready to help him heal the helpless animals he loved, stands
empty.
His lovely
young wife, eagerly awaiting her graduation as an elementary school teacher,
widowed
before she even had a chance to savor being Jack’s other half.
He was filled with humor and determination.
He tackled
life with gusto, aiming for perfection in everything he did.
And when I
heard the news, I couldn’t contain my tears.
Once again, I was reminded.
No one gets
forever.
Whether someone
dies at 56 like Mom, after years of battling cancer, pain and despair, or at 29,
after no illness at all.
Whether there is
warning or sudden shock …
Death doesn’t allow anyone to take a few
more years to realize a dream.
Death demands
instant respect, instant adherence to the call, instant grief for those who
remain behind.
Like most other people, I tend to think in
terms of the future.
When Howard
and I retire, we will …
When I get
into the office tomorrow, I will …
When I am
ready, I will …
When we get
older, we will …
How foolish! How presumptuous!
what had they planned for a future? Everything they’d worked and hoped for.
Not what they got.
I grieve over Jack’s loss for a number of
reasons.
First, because he was
so full of promise that will never be realized.
Second,
for those he served and what his loss will mean to their lives.
And finally, because I never had
the chance to say a real goodbye.
Just a quick “See’ya!”
as we left the last hockey game together.
We didn’t shake
hands or hug.
We would, after
all, see each other come fall or when my kitten needed Jack’s gentle touch.
We never know, you see. We never know if the
people we value will ever return to our lives.
We need to
say what we feel while we have the chance.
We need to
let people know how important they are to us while they can still appreciate
that knowledge.
We need to
live each day as though it were our very last.
We all know
that. It’s something we live with almost from the time we’re old enough to
know about death.
Somehow, though, we forget. We tend to live
as if there will always be a tomorrow.
The reminder
that it just isn’t so came home to me on Tuesday.
Tuesday, April 24th.
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