No Guarantee of Tomorrow
Friday reminded me that there are no guarantees for tomorrow.
My friend Mel, who was a guest on Unexpected Happiness, came over so we could go visit a new guest named Bob. I interviewed him a month ago.
Bob is 90. He was married for 65 years and cared for his wife at the end of her life.
Since our interview, he has signed up with hospice and now has 24-hour care at home.
When we walked in, people were bustling around helping him get comfortable. His skin looked slightly gray and he seemed exhausted.
I wondered if bringing lunch was a terrible idea.
Then his caregiver helped him to the table.
Within minutes, his color came back. His eyes twinkled and he was animated as he told us that he feels like his entire life has been lucky.
Not just the good parts.
Even the scary and hard parts were blessings.
Almost three hours later, Mel and I drove home recounting everything we learned.
Bob talked about how much he had loved solving problems and working on projects. But looking back now, he can’t remember many details about those projects.
The people are who he remembers in living color.
He understands now that what mattered wasn’t just delivering on time and on budget. It was who he spent his time with and how much they meant to him.
For some reason, when people are near the end of their lives, I lean in.
There is so much wisdom in hearing someone look back over a long life lived well.
But not all of us get a long life.
Friday night, as I was shutting down my computer, an email caught my eye.
A man who had served on a board with me had died suddenly.
He was 45.
An athlete. An adventurer. A CFO and CPA who had saved enough money to take a “gap year” and travel the world with friends and family.
My last conversation with him was about the adventures he had planned and how excited he was to have this time.
His death hit me like a punch to the gut.
A few months ago, another friend and podcast guest, Melissa, and I were hiking in the mountains near our homes. At the top of a ridge, we stopped for a snack at a bench with a memorial plaque.
It said:
There is no guarantee of tomorrow.
That was the first thing I thought of when I heard my friend had died.
It also reminded me of the message I shared that Tom’s dad left to everyone visiting the military cemetery:
Live Life Now.
I am really trying to learn this lesson.
And apparently, I can even make that complicated.
Tom and I made a list of “fun things to do this weekend.”
I’m sure you can guess whose idea that was.
On Saturday, we went to the pumpkin patch. Tom reached for the small wagon.
I laughed and handed him the industrial-sized version with off-road tires. She lives half a mile from the reunion in Beverly Hills.
We picked up a book from an author friend at a local bookstore that just happened to be across the street from my favorite ice cream shop.
We walked along the creek, saw a beautifully restored 1914 fire engine, met a juvenile red-tailed hawk and marveled at the fall leaves.
That night we watched a movie outside on our big screen, and I even made old-fashioned popcorn in our movie theater popcorn machine.
It was a fabulous day.
Now it’s Sunday.
And I’m itching to get some stuff done.
But wait.
Aren’t I supposed to live like there’s no tomorrow?
Does that mean I shouldn’t do anything productive because it’s the weekend?
This is where I can tie myself in a knot.
I love my life and all the different pieces of it.
I worked on my book this morning.
We’re going to plant bulbs so we’ll have color in the yard next spring.
I may even prepare a board report.
And I actually enjoy all of that.
So what does “live like there’s no tomorrow” really mean?
Only do “fun” things?
Split life 50/50 between work and play?
And there’s the saying about the master in the art of living not knowing the difference between work and play – maybe that’s the secret?
I don’t know the answer.
But I’m going to keep asking myself one question:
Am I enjoying what I’m doing right now?
And if the answer becomes ‘no’, maybe that’s my sign to change course.
With love,
Ariel
