We Spend Our Lives Doing TWO things: Becoming and Dying…

I know this sounds bleak in a title, but it really isn’t. It isn’t fatalistic either.  Is it just possible that we spend so much time trying to work on others that we forget where our focus really SHOULD be? I think so. That is why I opt for brutal honesty. I know I can’t change a damned thing about the past or the future because those are two things I cannot control, but I can control how I react when put in a certain spot.

I nearly got killed tonight. No kidding. Some bonehead decided to slam his brake when NOTHING was in front of his vehicle. My son was driving and we were going the speed limit (75 mph). He swerved to the right and fish-tailed.  “Ease up on the brake and stay calm.” Shit! I don’t know how that came out of my mouth, but it did. He swerved again to the right and fish-tailed again, then over corrected. This resulted in being spun around across the freeway and landing in the median. He tried to start the car and it wouldn’t start. “Brian, put it in park.” Once he did, it ran fine. No damage to the vehicle and more importantly none to us or my dog!

I don’t know HOW I managed to stay calm during that crap, but I was shook up when it was over. I said, “Let’s get the hell out of this ditch and go home!” and we did.  It was a miracle that he didn’t hit another vehicle, and more importantly, that we are alive.  He was laughing a few minutes later, and made a comment about reliving “Too Fast and Too Furious”…

I looked at him and said, “Brian, that is not funny to me.”  I think he was just grateful that we were alive and that is how he handled being shook up.

Either way it could have turned out very differently.  Brian and I are working hard on improving from within, and then this happens. It just goes to show that in an instant, the world can be changed for our loved ones. When we got to Kevin’s house (my other son), I gave him his birthday presents and hugged my daughter-in-law and my son. I held onto my grandson for a bit as well.  Let’s just say it gave me a new perspective on things this time of year, but  in the end, are we not all born to die?

Better yet, didn’t Beckett describe it best?, “…We are all born astride a grave…”?

I’d rather die working on the person I’m trying to become, than to regret the person who is now dead that is my past being,  OR  meet my future being who might be a bit more cranky than this particular incarnation of me in the present…

And how was your weekend?

 

Nana Remembers the Steps…

I remember well when Dad put these steps in...

I remember well when Dad put these steps in…

I remember being around 5 years old and bugging Dad to take me to the store with him at one point when he was working on these. He’d take us to the store, Mann’s Grocery and we’d get either a Nu-Grape, Pepsi, RC or a Dr. Pepper on those hot summer days. He built these so we could get in and out house easier–especially since his youngest daughter (MOI) was such a bloody clutz…  Today they will be covered–but not removed. We are having to put in a wheelchair ramp for my mother now.

Ironically, he built the steps for the same purpose this ramp is being built–to make going into and out of the house easier. My mother fell a few days ago and has broken her back in two places.  Age has ravaged her, but it has not broken her spirit. She is slowly making her way up another set of steps into the unknown–just as all of us will.  Hopefully, we’ll have her around for a while longer. I’m not ready to let her go. Thankfully she is up, alert and eating again but we were very scared at first.

And soon, these steps will be covered, hidden from sight just as my dad now is.  Yet I feel his presence in my life today.  I remember the love he had for us, not wanting to see us fall and get hurt, when he put those steps in.  The ramp being put in is also a poignant reminder that one day I will be an orphan, and the little girl in me is not ready for that right now anyway.  For now though, I am grateful that the day I dread is not here–and hopefully not for a very long time.