Life, a fragile thing

I find that I look at life in different terms than most people. For some reason people do not seem to understand the frailty of life. They like to pretend despite the knowledge otherwise that life will simply go on and on. I can’t help but notice and acknowledge that life is indeed fragile and it does end. I say things to people and they always look shocked. Simple things, but things of import, that they may need to know. For example today one of our dogs went to the vet; I put his yearly shot paperwork in his folder. This folder is stored with the two others for our other dogs next to the photo albums on a bookcase. I told my husband once again that this is where it was and he should know that. His response was, “You know where it is.” I smiled and nodded and reminded him that he may have to know where it is, and now he does. I’ve told him where it was before, but while the man is simply brilliant if he does not see the import of something he simply disregards it. If I know where it is, he feels he does not need to. I reminded him that tomorrow I could be hit by a bus or something and he should know where it is. He looked surprised as if somehow the thought that I may not be here never truly occurred to him.

Despite being in good physical condition, I am not known for being general healthy. I have Lupus, and from time to time my heart decides to do odd things due to a mitral valve prolapse. It’s usually not an issue but from time to time it decides to freak out on me. I figure everyone has their own things to deal with and on a wider scale it’s not really a big issue, but it is something I am aware of. I had acute lymphoblastic leukemia as a kid. I’ve owned a cemetery plot and a grave marker that I picked out for myself at the age of 7. They told me I wouldn’t live to see eight. They were off by at least thirty years. I’m hoping they were off by about 40 more at least. I’ve had a few other bouts with cancer, two others to be exact, but I’m still here. I’m just too darn stubborn to give up without a fight I guess. But this does make you realize how fleeting life truly is.

Life is merely a blink. It goes by so fast. When I was in law enforcement death was a large part of the job. People die. I often wonder if the surprise I see in people’s eyes is the unwillingness to recognize that fact, or if they simply believe if they don’t think about it or acknowledge it that it can’t happen. Like when you’re a kid and a scary noise is outside your window, if you don’t look it’ll just go away. My husband and I have been together for two decades now. I often say things to him that cause him to look at me in that stunned and silent expression. I’m not sure why the idea that he too may need the vital knowledge of things of import in the house brings him such repeated shock, but it does. Today he asked why I say these things, as if somehow speaking of them were a bad omen. I tried to explain that it’s easier for me to make sure that he knows then to have to worry that should something actually occur he is left totally unaware. I make lists of things, passwords, account numbers, payment schedules for bills, all the important things he may need to know. I make sure they are where he would think to look for them. There are some things that I know he wouldn’t think of, and these are the things I try to insert into his long term memory, like the vet records.

He had a scowl on his face, and asked me rather seriously, “Are you going to make us fill out wills?” I laughed, and reminded him we were married, and if one of us were to go, the other would get everything, and that should I go he can finally throw away the fake tree he hides in the basement because he hates but I cannot bear to part with it because came from my Gram. It’s ugly, I admit it, but I love the silly ugly thing. It fit with the ugly milk crate and cardboard box furniture we had back then. We were happy, and so was our ugly little fake tree. We used it as our first Christmas tree, and I’d decorate it in festive things for other holidays to give the place some color. It’s a weird cross between a palm tree and some sort of weeping willow. Like a weeping palm or something but it’s short. Yes, it is as ugly as it sounds. He grinned for a second, but the next breath the look on his face told me he’d keep that ugly thing, because he knows I love it.

He hates the seriousness of those short, ever so short discussions, and I know he can’t tolerate them for more than a few short sentences. It’s difficult to imagine the one you love not being there. I do worry for him, if something were to happen to me. I kid him and say he’d end up a naked hermit eating fatty American cheese foods. He laughs but likely I’m not far off the mark. The man hasn’t bought a stitch of his own clothes since…make that ever. I buy them, if he likes them we keep them, if not I return them. He despises shopping. He won’t even go food shopping. He doesn’t like stores of any kind. I deal with the finances, and the folks who need to maintain the furnace and that sort of thing. That is not something he wishes to do. I don’t mind it, but I worry that if I don’t…will he? I’m a wife; I handle all the stuff that is day to day to keep the house running, like most wives do. It all goes on behind the ‘wifely curtain’ and we do it rather effortlessly. He is a kept man. He arrives home to freshly ground coffee hot and ready for him the moment he arrives because I made it. If for some reason I’m not here to make it, he pouts, and tells me he had no coffee. Mind you he is capable of making it himself, and he does should he want more, but when he comes home he wants coffee made by me. Somehow this improves the coffee, though how exactly I’m not sure since I do not make good coffee and he routinely has to use massive cups to add a cup or so of cream and numerous tablespoons of sugar to the mixture to be able to drink it. For some reason the man desires bad coffee so strong it could arm wrestle him for the cup when he arrives home. He’s weird. He’s married to me, that pretty much explains it.

I don’t deal well with death, I never have, I tend to do my mourning in my yard, working until I am so exhausted I can barely move, as if somehow that will drain the grief from me. He deals with it differently; in the… I suppose normal way. I grieve by working; he knows this he’s seen me do it hundreds of times over the years. When a death bothers me, be it from the job, friend, or loved one I am off to the yard and stone wall building. In the winter I can be found at my sewing machine making pillow cases, curtains, or quilts until I can’t even keep my eyes open. I don’t know why…that’s just what I do. It lasts as long as it takes for my brain to come to terms with it. He knows that nothing he says or does can deter me from my tasks, and he’ll simply and quietly dispense food and drinks at given intervals because these things are forgotten in my focus on my tasks.

I don’t know if you can truly prepare someone for the death of another. I don’t know that anyone can be ready for it. I do wonder though, if realizing that life is as fragile as it truly is if people would somehow capture the moments, procrastinate less, live more fully, savor the small and precious things. This is something I ponder often as I watch the sun rise, and I’m sure today I’ll be pondering it again.