Cherish This Time

My friend’s heart is broken.  He lost his wife of more than 50 years last fall.  Stupid cancer.  Seeing him suffer breaks my heart too.  Tonight I was chatting with him about his cherished memories of their beautiful lifetime spent together and he said to me through tear filled eyes, “Cherish every moment, Pam.  It goes too fast.”

 

Seeing him suffer makes me feel desperate to do all I can to more fully appreciate all I have. I do try every day to cherish life and all of its precious moments.  To live each day to it’s fullest, appreciate my health while I’m healthy, to love my boys while they’re young and appreciate every nuance in each stage of development, to spend time with my parents and friends sharing conversation that has meaning and purpose, to laugh, to hug, to kiss goodnight.

But it is virtually impossible to open your heart and mind wide enough to fully fill every sense with appreciation for the countless things I have to be thankful for.  And I worry about whether I cherish every day enough?  Do I really treasure every moment that I have been given?  Am I doing enough to soak it all in, to see the beauty and promise, to enjoy the ride?

 Because, while I’d like to spend all my time in a state of appreciative euphoria, instead, the dog vomits on the floor, the cable goes out, the health insurance company denies your claim, gas prices go up, the kids have homework even I can’t figure out, laundry sits unfolded, and suddenly any sense of serene contemplation of my joyous gifts is put on hold to deal with, well my life.

It is the great mystery of life.  How am I able to cope with the disaster and chaos that presents itself so readily and randomly and at the same time be happy and grateful to have the opportunity to face life’s challenges knowing that the alternative is pretty grim.

When my first baby appeared in this world he was the greatest miracle I had ever witnessed.  And the feeling that surrounded our little family as we huddled over his beautiful, perfect, newborn arms and legs and toes and cap-covered head was as close to epiphany as I believe I have ever come; a time of unparalleled amazement, wonder, awe, humble relief, joy, satisfaction, and pride.  Then, he cried.  He cried, and cried, and cried.  It was ritualistic.  Every day like clockwork he would start in the late afternoon and continue for hours, undaunted by any and all attempts to offer relief.  It was like war.  Our dog would stand with his face pressed against the garage door begging to escape the insane noise of the household. 

Brutally tired, frustrated, and instinctively jealous of all the maternal images of peaceful snuggling bundles of joy, I can remember the feelings I desperately tried to control and dissect when I would hear the inevitable phrase, “Treasure this time with your baby, it goes by so fast.”

I can remember being alone in my room listening to the crying coming down the hall as I took a break from the front line, sarcastically longing to shout to the world what I really thought of this time with my baby.  It went on this way for six weeks, the longest no doubt of my life.  But now, when I consider the first 42 days with my son, it seems fair to say, while I didn’t treasure those times then, I somehow do now.

With that perspective in mind, while I seek a way to achieve a higher level of consciousness where I can savor every delightful breath for the miracle it really is, I also look for ways to best cope with the now moments that I know I will cherish in due time, once they’ve ripened.  While I strive for a road with fewer bumps, I may not drive it, so whatever scenery the journey brings I hope to enjoy the ride the best I can with humor, patience, and gratitude and know I’m doing the best I can when I fail.

And this long cold winter, I pray for peace for my friend and all who are suffering from the cruel reality of losing their beloved, and hope happy memories will sustain.