For the last several months, I haven't been inspired to write the J4K. It is not for one particular reason, I think, besides the fact that I have been going through a few medical interventions. Losing 20 pounds, not being able to drink liquids normally, and not being able to eat “normally”—whatever that means—plus not having my usual energy, is just not a good formula for me to come up with little stories. But here I am, trying my best today.
Do you remember seeing that classic image of a person typing furiously? And as they type, they almost immediately rip the papers out and toss them away… You can feel the frustration of them not being pleased with their work. Well, that's the perfect image of me lately. I get an idea of what to write, and as soon as I think it's a good topic, I immediately rule it out. I think of something else, and then the same thing happens—I rule it out.
Recently, though, I had a life lesson from my ex-sister-in-law. Who is this person who has given me such a lesson? Well, we met when I was 17 years old and she was in her early 30s. It was a big age difference between us, but it was never an issue. I was a mature 17-year-old and she was a young 30-something. I was never intimidated by her beautiful physical persona or her vibrant personality. Instead, I was amused by her intense Argentinian accent, her deep love for her brother, and her patience toward me.
The years have flown away like hojas in High Park in the winter. In front of our eyes, 51 years have passed. That happens so easily—just blink your eyes, and a whole life goes by.
As I was talking to her recently, she let me know that she was starting to lose her memory and that she was showing signs of dementia. Joyfully, she laughed and said, “OOOH well! That's life…!” She just kept giggling. I was so surprised by her attitude. I thought, “Get out of here!”
Why? How can she be so cool about this less-than-good news? If it were me receiving that news, I would probably be devastated. I would probably be thinking, “OOOOOH SHITTTTTT! Not me.”
They say that when you get dementia, you only remember your mother language. In that case: ciao, sayonara, adiós United States for me! Will I have to go back to my hometown and leave behind my good friends, my shoes, my community, my friends at Starbucks, and my dinners at La Boca? Imagining leaving behind my hiking on Canyon Road is not a pretty picture.
But she is so accepting of the news, giggling about it perhaps because she has had a good life, and because she has been loved by so many people. She may be thinking, “There is not much I can do about that except to live happily with the time I have left to live.”
I don't know! I could ask her since we have known each other for so many years, but I feel like I’m intruding. I feel like I’m asking her to go skinny-dipping with me in a very delicate matter of life.
It is a big lesson for me. If she can see life with such a good attitude, then why do I complain about things that are not going exactly as I would like? My ego is so big; I should be sizing it down small enough to fit into a shoebox. I think I will box up my attachments, my envy, my arrogance, my bitterness, and my accent, all into that same shoebox.
Is it perhaps that she has truly found the meaning of life, and that it is simply… “Don't worry! Be happy!”?
When it is my turn, I have a vision of my life ending like an old theater where the big, heavy velvet curtains come down, and you just know this is THE END… or perhaps you won't know. That’s a thought.
I’m a little dramatic, I know. I just hope I can still be granted good enough health, a good family, and, very importantly, my very good friends.
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