Everything Changed
Talking with a good friend of mine who nearly died last year as cancer threatened him. He went through a few major operations, blood clots, and his last rites. To be honest, I didn't think he'd survive.
It's been nearly a year and he hasn't missed more than a few hours of work since his remarkable recovery but he certainly has mellowed. He will forever have lingering medical problems, but he's still here.
"I never once heard you complain," I told him yesterday.
"What good will it do me to complain to you," he answered. "You can't do a single thing for me."
I know that he's in pain from time to time. He eats differently, no longer smokes, drinks, or takes anything for granted.
"Why are you working so much?" I asked him.
"I have to keep going," he said. "Everything changed and no one will ever know what goes through my mind on a daily basis, but my family still expects me to produce."
And I thought of it in the context of my own life and the struggle that has become 2009. The struggle of grief, constant reminders, what-if's and how-comes. I thought of the woman who asked me why I haven't written anything new yet, but quickly covered it by saying, "You went through that thing with your brother, but you have to be coming around, right?"
Uh, no. Everything changed. I can loosely say it enters my mind every seven minutes or so. Six months later...every seven minutes. What will it be in say one year, two years, ten years? Every ten minutes?
And things are different - extremely different. Food doesn't taste as good, although you wouldn't know it by looking at me. The Yanks can win every game from here to eternity and it won't feel as good as when we watched them beat the Mets and the long, giddy conversation we had the next day.
And that's all there is to it. Everything changed. Nothing will ever be the same. And I think of it in the context of the millions of people who suffer heartbreak and despair. Right now, somewhere, someone is going through something so devastating that they feel as if they won't recover, and perhaps they never will.
"You dig deep and move forward," my buddy said. "And you hide the suffering and the pain as best you can because at the end of the day you're the one who is handling it. People care and they show their love, but they don't really appreciate what you need to do to adapt. They don't want to see the change in you. They expect you to be what they believed you to be. So, you give it to them, and you live through the change on your own."
"I appreciate what you went through," I said.
"No you don't," he said, "but it's nice of you to say."
I hate change.
And I didn't win the friggen' Mega Millions.
(Hey Pops - you in for golf tomorrow?)
It's been nearly a year and he hasn't missed more than a few hours of work since his remarkable recovery but he certainly has mellowed. He will forever have lingering medical problems, but he's still here.
"I never once heard you complain," I told him yesterday.
"What good will it do me to complain to you," he answered. "You can't do a single thing for me."
I know that he's in pain from time to time. He eats differently, no longer smokes, drinks, or takes anything for granted.
"Why are you working so much?" I asked him.
"I have to keep going," he said. "Everything changed and no one will ever know what goes through my mind on a daily basis, but my family still expects me to produce."
And I thought of it in the context of my own life and the struggle that has become 2009. The struggle of grief, constant reminders, what-if's and how-comes. I thought of the woman who asked me why I haven't written anything new yet, but quickly covered it by saying, "You went through that thing with your brother, but you have to be coming around, right?"
Uh, no. Everything changed. I can loosely say it enters my mind every seven minutes or so. Six months later...every seven minutes. What will it be in say one year, two years, ten years? Every ten minutes?
And things are different - extremely different. Food doesn't taste as good, although you wouldn't know it by looking at me. The Yanks can win every game from here to eternity and it won't feel as good as when we watched them beat the Mets and the long, giddy conversation we had the next day.
And that's all there is to it. Everything changed. Nothing will ever be the same. And I think of it in the context of the millions of people who suffer heartbreak and despair. Right now, somewhere, someone is going through something so devastating that they feel as if they won't recover, and perhaps they never will.
"You dig deep and move forward," my buddy said. "And you hide the suffering and the pain as best you can because at the end of the day you're the one who is handling it. People care and they show their love, but they don't really appreciate what you need to do to adapt. They don't want to see the change in you. They expect you to be what they believed you to be. So, you give it to them, and you live through the change on your own."
"I appreciate what you went through," I said.
"No you don't," he said, "but it's nice of you to say."
I hate change.
And I didn't win the friggen' Mega Millions.
(Hey Pops - you in for golf tomorrow?)
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