Tomorrow Is A Thief

Article Word Count 942, average reading time 3.8 minutes.

My Uncle David died this morning.

I'm not telling you because it would mean anything to you, or because I just can't contain myself. Actually, there is a gift for you hidden in this story.

See if you can find it.

As deaths happen, Uncle David died as gracefully as he had lived his ninety-three years. His wife went on ahead a couple of years ago and he stayed in their house and kept involved in his community and our family. He stayed in touch by email and phone and seemed okay for a guy who had been widowed at ninety-one.

He was well and symptom-free until just a few months ago, and even during the chemotherapy and radiation he was uncomplaining. Miraculously, he didn't develop any serious pain until a few days ago and then he went quickly, without extended suffering.

Even though he had full time care at home during this brief final illness, one or another of us nephews and nieces was with him during weekends and on many of the weekdays.

He was the last of my father's brothers, and during my visits with him he would reminisce about events that took place before I was born. He told me stories of when he was in his teens and my parents were in their twenties, and the adventures they had during the early and middle years of the twentieth century. Times when our family (and our country) were young and optimistic, full of immigrant energy and hope.

Many pieces of my life got explained in those few stories. Like other members of our family, I will treasure those last few visits with my Uncle David, as well as my memories of him throughout my life.

Now he's gone, and opportunities to hear stories from that generation are gone with him forever. I like to think he's reunited with folks like his wife and my parents and my other uncles, people he was telling me stories about.

Throughout my life, my uncle and aunt were at everyone's important moments — weddings and graduations, important birthdays, funerals and family reunions. They were there for all of us.

Funny. For over twenty years he had lived in that house a couple of hours north of me, but until he got sick I only saw him once or twice a year, if that often. Busy with life and work, you know, and always planning on going up for a long weekend catch-up visit.

Then when he got sick, family members from hundreds of miles away in different directions found the way to his house. We came on alternate days, to take him to the doctor, to make him laugh, to bring him soup and companionship.

But mostly we came to just be with this precious man, conscious now that we were running out of time with him, with his whole generation. So for the last couple of months, we abandoned our schedules and our precious everyday priorities to make the visits that we had put off for years.

I was to go visit him today. I hadn't seen my uncle in a couple of weeks, and was planning on driving up there first thing when I got the call that cancelled my trip. He had died this morning.

So that's that. I'm glad he didn't suffer for very long. God bless.

I've had time today to think about my uncle, and to celebrate his life and the wonderful effect that he had on me, my children and their children. Good thoughts, good memories.

So far so good.

On the other hand, I've realized what I've missed. I've had time to notice the years — and the visits — that I lost by being so preoccupied when he was healthy, not seeing him more when I could have made the time if I'd chosen to do so. We would have had livelier visits back then; it wouldn't have been such a deathwatch.

"Well," I told myself, "if there's anything you've learned so far, it's that life doesn't follow your schedule. Babies are born and people die and accidents happen whenever, and the trick is to deal with whatever life throws at you."

Good point, Tom. Only, how about the opportunities you throw away by being "too busy", until the door closes on that possibility forever? Like seeing your last living uncle when he's healthy?

Let's see, is there anyone else that I haven't seen or called in a long time? Like, someone I intended to call but didn't — since 1999?

Or, guess what? Suppose it's not someone else that time takes away before I see them or let them know they're precious to me.

Suppose it's me that runs out of time? What might I have left undone?
How about the charity that Vikki and I were interested in, but I never contacted them to get involved?

What's on my list to change about my life, or myself? Anyone I should apologize to, make up with, or forgive?

What might I say (or write) to my kids or my grandchildren or to others, if I acted like there was no guarantee of a "tomorrow?"

Because there isn't, you know. There is no guarantee of a "tomorrow." Yeah, sure, "there's always tomorrow."

For somebody, not for all of us.

So you might look over your laundry list of things you put off "till tomorrow," maybe for years. You might look at the things (and deeds) that you really want to include in your life.

The odds of getting what you want in your life get a lot better if you begin to do something, now. You could decide what you are really serious about doing so you can make time to do it.

Now, do it as soon as you can fit it in.

Because, my friend, although the sun may rise tomorrow, "tomorrow" is a thief.

Seeya,

Tom Hoobyar

©2007 Tom Hoobyar