Life or Something Like It...

It was in his memory box. The book he wrote. Probably early in his career, when he was a budding young scientist, fresh PhD. When the hospice nurse pointed it out, she noted he was brilliant. She seemed to want to emphasize that he was a brilliant man. She said he was well known at the University, admired by all. I assume she felt she needed to say this after my short meeting with him. We had just left his room, where he only spoke one word to me... repeatedly. "Hello. I'm Sarah. I'm with the company who is going to be coming by to help." He opened his eyes for a moment when I first spoke as if all I was saying was registering with him. Then he cut me off. "Please. Please. Please. Please." That was when the hospice nurse first came in. "He just laid down to nap." "Please. Please. Please," he continued. The hospice nurse jumped in. "Did you want to rest?" "Please. Please." "Okay. We're going." We left his room and that's when she showed me his memory box - with the one book on the shelf. The book with the long title which led to the nurse saying he was brilliant. "He's a doctor you know." "Oh, a PhD?" "Yes. He spent most of his life in the lab. Brilliant." I was quiet as I reflected upon the fact that while his book title held at least 9 words, he was now reduced to only a few he used in repetition to communicate his addled thoughts.

This was to be a story about this man. This man with the impaired memory, brought on by his final stages of dementia, but it quickly became a story about me. It was hard not to reflect on my own life when I witnessed a brilliant scientist turned dependent adult, living his final days in a memory care unit, miles away from his home town. It's not that I find myself to be brilliant - not anywhere near what I'm sure this man was capable of. It is the PhD connection though, because it's easy to remember all the hard work I invested in what was at the time, the most important thing in my life. And now I see that so much hard work can be reduced to one book on a shelf, with little to no relevance to this man now. It's also because I often reflect on life and identity and what really matters as people constantly want to know what I "do" or what my plans are when my husband gets his dream job. "Yes, but what are you going to do, once you and Josh move for his job." I always feel the need to justify, to defend, to offer an entire foreword before I announce, "We'll see." What I really want to do is see what the future holds. Not worry about what I'm going to do or what I want to be. I am a dreamer. I love to dabble. It seems like every day I decide upon a new hobby I want to take up. A new person I want to be. But I see the look. Or maybe I manufacture it out of my own insecurities, but it's that pause that occurs when you announce after years of hard work and study, a doctorate, and the entrance into your thirties, when you announce that you actually really have no idea what you want to be. And you wonder why there is so much weight placed on your identity being made up by what you do for a living, when you see a brilliant man who invested everything into his career but now needs to be reminded to use the restroom. This man had a tumultuous relationship with his daughters because of his time spent at work, a family fractured by problems they'd wrestled with for years. Perhaps the only and most gracious part of this disease is that the ever-present hatred in his relationship with his daughters is now forgotten. And it's in these moments when it is impossible not to reflect on what we give our time to in our lives.

I'm convinced, as many are, that identity is not based in one's career. It is not constructed solely through one's intellect, as despite what most want to believe, this too is fleeting. This world is temporary and the things we chase after, while seemingly important for a moment, last for just that... the moment. And so then the answer? Carpe diem and all that? Perhaps. Perhaps the answer is to rejoice in the moment. Experience the beauty of the day, the hour. We are so quick to declare a day as bad overall because we tend to focus on all the frustrating and negative events of the day. But what if we enjoyed even these moments too? Seeing moments of pain as moments of growth? Moments of failure as moments of opportunity? Far too often we focus only on accomplishments - which we believe determine our worth, our value. But the danger of that is that without those accomplishments or when those accomplishments begin collecting dust, what else is there?

Today I had the privilege of attending a beautiful memorial, celebrating the life of Dianne Day. An incredibly active, joyful, and zany woman who passed away unexpectedly from a massive stroke. She had volunteered and given all of herself to the Senior Center, and so it was the Center that hosted this beautiful ceremony in her honor. Dianne was the type of person who experienced trouble and turmoil throughout her life, losing her husband unexpectedly at 50 was among her life's tragedies. But Dianne was also a person who lived out the same Spirit I often find myself too timid to embrace. She was the type of person who enjoyed all of life, drinking it to the dregs. In her senior years, she decided to take up tango... because she wanted to. She sewed wearable art, using the odd patches of remnant material to make African inspired tunics, leopard overcoats, purple captains' hats, and metallic jackets, which she gave generously to friends and families. And at the memorial these recipients of her zany creations stood in pride as they displayed her wearable art. There were wonderful speeches and memories shared about this vibrant 67 year-old woman. There was a tango danced in her honor. And I can say that this was the first memorial I attended where every utterance about this woman worked to construct a cohesive identity of who she was. Though she had a multi-faceted personality, all facets were seemingly captured and agreed upon by all in attendance. As an acquaintance of Dianne, I only knew her vaguely and briefly, but her Spirit and the core of who she was was so apparent that with every story I heard, I found myself nodding and thinking, "Yes, that would be Dianne." And I found myself wishing she could have been there, for her own memorial, because oh how she would have loved that celebration. And I thought, this is how I want to be known. As a person who loves generously, enjoyed life's indulgences, followed dreams even in their infancy, and was incredibly hopeful and gracious for all that could be experienced in life.

This is not to say that Dianne had a perfect life. Or that it was in any way better than the man who spent his life working. But her legacy gives me the courage to be bold about the fact that life is a journey and that those things many of us think are important or define who we are, are often temporary... whether that's for better or worse. I choose to be a dreamer. To continue to hope. To trust that my identity is not in what I do for a living. To remember where my true identity lies, in He who gives me this hope. I don't know what my future holds and while previously that would have made me anxious, instead I am exhilarated, to not be boxed in, tied down, forced in one direction. But instead to experiment. To experience. To not know what I'm going to do with my life. To truly live. The final stanza of a the poem printed on Dianne's memorial program seems to capture where I'm at. Although I am younger than the writer, the sentiment is near to my heart:

"So to answer your question, I like being old, it has set me free. I like the person I've become. I am not going to live forever; but while I am here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be. I will simply choose to savor each day, and make the most of each glorious day in my own special way so that when my time comes I will know I made the most of being me."

Thank you Dianne for reminding me...