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I hate to complain, because I hate complainers. Suck it up buttercup. Whining shows weakness, and I don’t want to be weak. I want to be strong and agile. I want to be energetic and full of vitality.
Instead, last week I was stuck on my sofa, unable to motivate myself to do much. I went to the gym one morning and almost walked out of class. My body was screaming for me to stop.
Even food didn’t help. Nothing appealed to me. I only eat because I have to. So why am I gaining weight?
When I gave up and tried to take a nap, I was annoyed by a constant buzzing. A mosquito snuck in when I last went out. She was persistent in her quest to keep me awake, so I roll out of bed frustrated.
There’s was an anger deep in my gut. I was furious with the world.
Twenty-four hours before getting stuck on my sofa, I was fine.
Tired? Yes.
In pain? Always.
Pissed off? Yes, at the state of our country.
What changed?
My husband and I had our annual meeting with our financial advisor prior to my couch coma. It was all good news. Our diversified portfolios are holding steady and, in some cases, growing. He told us that we’re in good shape.
“So let’s now look at the future,” he says.
He explained they use some kind of Monte Carlo odds simulations to forecast future earnings. He then moved his mouse from 2025 to 2045, showing us how different variables might affect our investments.
“In all scenarios,” the financial planner continued, “You will not run out of money.”
Good news, right?
As he kept moving the mouse back and forth, I started to feel sick. The idea of my life twenty years in the future suddenly scared the shit out of me. Hot tears began to burn at the back of my eyes.
When the call ended my husband asked, “Are you okay?”
I started to cry. Poor guy, he didn’t know what was going on. “Don’t worry, Karen, we’ve got plenty of money. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“It’s not about the money,” I confessed. “I got overwhelmed by him projecting our lives twenty years out. The reality that my life almost ended hit me like a ton of bricks. I honestly didn’t see myself living to 70.”
I’m currently 67.
When I was diagnosed with MDS in June of 2021 I looked up the prognosis. My doctor said I was at Moderate/High risk level which gave me about 2.8 years. Knowing survival rates are based on numerous factors I figured I had 5 – 7 years if I received treatment. With a stem cell transplant I had a good chance to get more, that is if I survived the first two years. I don’t even know what the odds were because they vary too widely.
At my last visit, the doctor said I was still in remission and now have the same life expectancy as anyone else my age. Reassuring except for the fact that several friends and acquaintances in my age group have died recently.
I’m well aware that we all have an expiration date Some people get many more years than others. My grandmother lived to 101. My father was 96 when he died.
Maybe my discomfort was about the fragility of the future. I want to live long enough for my grandchildren to remember me.
My mother’s father died when I was eight years old. He was the only grandfather I knew because my dad lost his father when he was nineteen. I loved Granddaddy so much. He was the definition of unconditional love. Even after he died, I could feel his presence. I still can remember how he smelled. Like Old Spice and coffee.
I don’t want to feel weak with pain. I don’t want to be paralyzed by my own thoughts. I want to be the author of good memories for the people I love.
During the first year of recovering from my stem cell transplant two more of my grandchildren were born. Both of their pending arrivals gave me something to strive for. I wanted to live long enough to meet them.
My son Eric’s first child was one of those babies. Right after he was born, Eric and his wife, India were opening a new business. Luckily, I was nine months post-transplant and doing well, so I went to their house a couple days a week to babysit. Helping care for him not only gave me a purpose, it saved me.
I’ve never been happy when I’m idle. I need activity, appointments, projects and obligations to keep me sane. When I have nothing to do, I squander my time by watching TV or scrolling on my phone. Those activities leave me feeling like I’ve binged on junk food. They don’t satisfy my hunger.
This past weekend we had company. While I was looking forward to seeing old friends, I had trouble mustering enough energy to prepare. Going to the grocery store was exhausting. Tidying up the guest rooms ended with me laying on the couch again.
When they arrived, I pretended all was well. I put on a happy face and tried to enjoy myself. But I could only hold on so long. At 8:30 pm I excused myself to go to bed. I was sound asleep before my head hit the pillow.
At 2:00 am I woke suddenly to the sound of the back door closing. Joe came into our room and told me our dog, Dasher, was missing. He’d gone out at 10:00 pm and had never returned.
It wasn’t unusual for Dasher to go on a walk about. We live in a rural area and he often roams around at night, like he’s patrolling the vicinity. Our neighbor has caught him more than once on his security camera. Dasher likes to poop in their yard.
However, it was unusual for him to be gone for four hours. I convinced my husband to get the golf cart and we drove through the neighborhood shining our flashlights in every ditch and wooded area. We didn’t call out because at thirteen years old, Dasher is practically deaf, but we hoped he would see the lights. After driving around for a while we gave up and went home.
The rest of the night I couldn’t sleep. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw my poor pup lying in a ditch or lost in the woods feeling terrified. Joe and I held hands because he couldn’t sleep either.
Once the sun came up, we got dressed and went back to looking for him. While Joe was getting the golf cart, I walked down the river. I interrupted the great blue heron who fishes off our dock. She squawked her disapproval as she flew away.
Standing on the end of our dock I prayed for my mom and dad to help. I’d sprinkled some of their ashes in the water here after they died so this is where I come to talk to them. They loved Dasher so much. I asked them to take care of him if he was in heaven. If not he wasn’t there, I asked them to help me find him.
After brushing away the tears, I began to walk up the hill to my house, wondering what to do next. Is it too early to call my neighbors? Do I have a good picture of him for a lost dog poster?
Then I heard a familiar jingle of dog tags and looked across the yard. There he was, running toward me with bright eyes and, I swear, a big smile. We had a huge, Hollywood style reunion, including rolling around on the grass. Tears streamed down my face as we got up and ran together to find Joe. Their reunion was just as dramatic.
Dasher had only been gone for a little over eight hours, but it had felt like an eternity. Hundreds of scenarios had run through my mind, most of them ending with grief. I wasn’t ready to lose him.
For some strange reason this event has shifted me out of my funk. Actually it’s not that strange. It reminded me of the delicate balance between life and death. None of us knows how long we have.
At some point during the sleepless night I thought about the long and wonderful life my dog had. His origin story includes being frightened and running under a school bus in a huge rainstorm. Fortunately, a friend of mine saw this, rescued him, and gave him to me because she said he was perfect to be my new dog. At first, I was opposed because I was still grieving my other pup who died from cancer. Plus we were getting ready to move. But, when I met Dasher, and looked into his golden eyes, I knew he was mine. Then I brought him home and Joe fell in love with him too.
He is a remarkable dog who everyone loves as soon as they meet him. More than once my mother asked if she could keep him. Each time she’d offer me more and more money, but I’d decline. Dasher is priceless.
But he’s also a dog. According to Pet Care RX the average lifespan of a cross breed is 12 years. He’s got a lot of Labrador in him so they give him another year of survival. He’s currently 13.5 years old and healthy. But, I have to accept the fact that he’s living on borrowed time.
It’s not hard for me to see how this is relevant to my own situation. If I hadn’t been diagnosed in June of 2021 and hadn’t begun treatment, I might not have made it to 2025. Every month I live past that original estimated life span of 2.8-year, I’ve beat the odds.
Dasher’s life is precious to me. I want him to feel happy and purposeful and loved. Sometimes it’s hard to overlook his annoying habits, but during that long night when he was missing, I started to grieve for the days when he wouldn’t be around.
My life is also precious to me. I too want to feel happy and purposeful and loved. I have plenty of bad habits that I’m sure annoy my husband and others. Will they also grieve when I’m no longer around to bug them?
While I write this post, Dasher is doing his regular let me in, let me out routine. Or he wanders to the water bowl for a drink. Sometimes he nudges me with his nose. One moment I looked up and saw him staring at me with his golden eyes.
So hugged him and thanked him for reminding me to live each day the best that I can no matter how many are left.
Then I gave him a treat. Such a good dog.
OMG!!!
The anxiety I went through when Dasher was lost. No, no, no, I kept thinking.
It really made me laugh aloud when he came back smiling. Arnold once had a romp—IN VERY BUSY STATEN ISLAND—and was rescued by our housekeeper. When I came home he looked positively pleased with himself.
I identified so much with how you are feeling. Great essay.
Beautiful, Karen.