Life is a precious thing, but we always need reminders to shake us up and remind us of that. We whine and complain and criticize and waste precious time on such petty things, even though we know somewhere in our being that life is short, it is precious, it is random, and it is a gift.
Being alive is better than being dead. As far as I know. Every time somebody I care about or who inspired me dies, I want to grab their soul before it flies away and say "Tell me what you know. Is there an afterlife? Is there a god? Should I behave, or can I indulge my evil side and sin gleefully? Can I drink a bottle of whiskey a day and live forty more years?" I need to know these things; everybody needs to know these things. But we will never have those answers until shovels throw dirt on our grave.
If you want to get one more jolt proving to you that life is precious and life is random, place a phone call to Jerome Harrison. Running back for the Detroit Lions. He was traded to the Philadelphia Eagles, but the trade was rescinded. Every trade requires a routine physical, kind of like when you squeeze a melon at the supermarket to make sure it is not too soft. Jerome Harrison's routine physical revealed a brain tumor. The Eagles prefer their running backs not to have brain tumors, so the trade was nixed.
He was traded on Tuesday, October 18; he underwent brain surgery on Friday, October 21. This is the very definition of the fragility of life. Harrison was earning $1,759,000. Not a lot for a professional football player, but still a damn good living. He was playing in the NFL on the biggest football stage in the world, and for a team that is experiencing a renaissance, kicking some butt and shaking things up. He had been having headaches but had no inkling that he had a brain tumor. Now he is recovering from major surgery.
Had he not been traded, had he not been subjected to a physical, the tumor might have gone undetected until he had no chance, until his life was threatened. How random is that? It is overwhelming.
I hope he bounces back 100%; I hope he gets to play in the NFL again, I hope his trauma makes an indelible mark on my brain that forces me to love every day that I am able to fall out of bed.
I don't earn $1,759,000 a year. At my present rate of pay it would take me 86 years to earn a total of $1,759,000. That would make me 143 years old. I am planning on retiring at the age of 130 so I am guaranteed to fall short. The money isn't the point. There have been countless tragedies and reminders and shocks and awakenings in my life ( and in yours as well) that should have hipped me permanently to the fact that I am lucky to be alive and healthy with an amazing family and amazing pets.
But I forget. And so do you. I worry about stupid things and I get petty, and I snarl when I should laugh, and I close me eyes when they should be wide, fucking open. I know this in my soul and, if that isn't enough, I have read it a million times in words telling me to live in the now and forget about regret and worry, to appreciate what I have.
Transcending our petty existence is a very hard thing to do. But I bet Jerome Harrison is digging life right now in a way that he never has before. Outside the context of football and bank accounts, and within the precious circle of family and friends. And breathing and heartbeats and waking up to sunshine in the morning. Or maybe just a cup of coffee and a kiss.
I don't know why we are so small, so petty. Maybe because we are all disappointed; our lives are never as glorious as we expected. But for christ sake, read about and think about Jerome Harrison and how quickly his life went from glamor to brain surgery in three days. And realize that every time you complain about something small, or worry about something material, you are wasting your life. WASTING YOUR LIFE. I cannot think of anything more hideous than that.
I'm trying, Jerome, I'm trying. I wish you luck, man, and love and life and beauty.
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