one last look

Sometimes I try to force myself to consider how I would spend a day if I knew it was my very last day on earth.

I remember walking in a hospital gown down a hallway with my husband about three weeks after our first son was born. I was on my way to surgery, wondering if my life as a mother would end before it really began. I could not imagine my husband raising our son alone and assured myself that he would remarry someone who would love them both. The time it takes to walk down a hospital corridor is not long enough to express any meaningful last wishes to one's spouse. All I could manage to ask him was to not be angry at God if I didn't wake up. I knew my life was in God's hands. I also knew that our prayers are not always answered in the ways in which we think they should be.

I'm not sure I would have been able to spend that day so many years ago in any more significant way than any other day. The pain I was in at the time did not allow for a tender "Goodnight Moon" departure, but more like "Let's get this over with already, Goodnight!" The surgeon would later tell me that the last thing I said before going under was, "This is going to be the first good sleep I've had in weeks." Our first son would not sleep through the night until he was two years old.

Yesterday, when I called my dentist to admit that the second root canal had failed, I was surprised to be scheduled for root canal--the sequel, today. It isn't a simple thing--me going to the dentist. It is more like surgery. I can't eat or drink for many hours prior to the visit and then need to be driven home so I can sleep off the anesthetic for the rest of the day. I pause while signing the waiver, agreeing to not hold anyone responsible for brain damage or death. Dentistry is not an exact science, the document states. And there are no guarantees in life, it should say.

Before I would have to face my worst fear, I had a lot of work I was trying to accomplish. I thought I should consider the possibility of this being it--my last day--and wanted to have a moment to do something significant: listen to a song I'm particularly fond of, watch a favorite movie, have a good cry, and spend time in quiet meditation and prayer. Perhaps I could make time for this once I finished balancing the checkbook, answering emails, registering for our second son's college orientation, updating financial aid forms, and getting him to transfer the invitation for his graduation party from his phone to my computer so I can continue with the party preparation plans. I wanted to at least get the sewing order started for one of my customers, and then work on one of my writing projects. I even made the cookie dough for cookies I will take to the church picnic.

My mind wandered back to thoughts about having a significant moment while I was shopping at one of my favorite thrift stores with my now college-aged firstborn son. I hummed along to the background tunes in the shop, while he made disparaging remarks about the kind of people who would enjoy such music. On the way home we debated the existence of a word I knew he would use regardless.

I would then bake a tray of chicken to take to a school banquet in which my two younger sons would be recognized for being part of the track team. My youngest son would arrive after his soccer tryouts. My graduating son would be recognized for signing with a college track team. Both would sit with us and as many friends as there was room for at the table. We would sit in a cafeteria that was too hot because of the school system's cost-cutting measures, and we would stand in line half an hour as a continuous stream of kids cut in line in front of us. With a throbbing head caused by this rogue tooth accentuating my already natural anti-social ways, I had an epiphany: I was just glad to be there.

If my life was reduced to nothing more than sitting on an uncomfortable high school cafeteria stool, eating questionable side dishes after snagging a piece of my own chicken, watching my sons becoming men before my eyes, waiting for my teacher husband to finish correcting the stack of papers he brought with him, and seeing the coaches and teachers who have helped raise my children standing there smiling, it was all good. Not the moment I thought I needed, but the moment I was given. And I was grateful.