Saturday night, I ended up staying up late and doing a surprise Easter Egg Hunt with Nikki and Pam. I filled the eggs and hid them around the apartment while they waited in Pam’s room, then came out to find full easter baskets (flower pots, actually) and proceeded to find the sparkly eggs Nikki and I had bought a few weeks ago.
In the excitement, however, I forgot to take my night medications. I grabbed them out off my nightstand, even got a drink ready to take them with, but just missed the step where I actually take them. By the time I realized I’d forgotten them, it was way too late in the night to take them if I wanted to be at all functional the next day. Thus, I was up all night and dealing with pain. This gave me the rare opportunity, though, to watch the sun rise.
Our previous apartment didn’t have a very good view. It faced the building’s parking lot and another building, so our blinds were drawn the majority of the time. This apartment, however, offers a cute view of the treetops and the sky if you’re laying in bed, as I was when the dawn of Easter Sunday painted the sky in spring colors. The window was open, letting in that light, crisp morning breeze, and birds were beginning to sing. I love the sky and especially love mornings (despite being all but incapable of getting up in the morning), so I enjoyed my rare chance to watch the sun rise.
As light filled the bedroom, though, grief found me. I studied the colors of the sky, trying to name them, when a thought flitted through my mind, asking “how many more sunrises will you see before you’re gone?”.
How many mornings do I have left?
That’s the difference being terminal has created in me. Now and then, fear and sadness blossom and cause me to pause and question how many more moments do I have? How many times do I get to laugh with my loved ones? How many Easters will I spend filling and hiding eggs for Nikki and Pam to find? How many times will I wake up next to my wife?
It’s hard to face these questions. Probably the most difficult part of this whole journey, in all honesty. It’s the moment when it’s no longer about the symptoms, but about living and the eventual end. I try to seek out comfort in that everyone is mortal, we all share these moments, though maybe not with the knowledge or certainty that comes with mine. I try to be grateful, since knowing my time is limited perhaps gives me a greater sense of appreciation for the moments I do have. I try to make the most of my moments, just as anyone should, so that I miss as few as possible. Every little moment of joy becomes something worthy of celebration, even no reason at all. Living is worth celebrating, after all.