Dying

Dad used to edit his 8 mm home movies with a desktop reel to reel splicer. He’d view the developed reel a frame at a time, snip out the scenes he didn’t want to keep and then splice the two cut ends together. By the time he finished, we had another volume of family history, the editor’s cut.

That’s how I remember last summer. That’s because one year ago this very day I was dying. I didn’t know that because I was semi-comatose with tubes and hoses running out of every orifice. I don’t even remember getting hooked up. Nancy holds my memory of those days for me. The toxins from a dying liver and all the meds fried whatever part of my brain takes pictures, like a splicer on steroids.

The last day I recall with clarity was June 30, when we visited Gettysburg. On the reel of my memory, the next thirty days are pretty badly spliced up. Every now and then, I’ll ask Nancy to fill in some of the blanks my brain threw away. I’ve wondered if this is how Alzheimer’s victims must feel about their whole life.

One thing I do remember was coming face to face with my own mortality. I have snapshot memories of doctors and nurses working over me, talking about how sick I was, people praying. All the time, I could only look up at them from the bed, helpless to even participate in the conversation.

I’m still amazed at how quickly I got so sick, like as unto death. One day walking free, the next tethered to a bed. Thinking back on that week reminds me of the one thing I do remember learning for sure, a memory that stayed. However short or long our lives may be, they can end faster than an editor can snip a reel of film.

Whatever we intend to do, dream of doing, hope to do, we’d better get after it now. The worst thing we can ever do is allow ourselves to believe we’ve got tomorrow to get it done. This is the day the Lord has made for us to live the life he’s given us. We’re all dying. We just don’t know when the reel will come to an end.