Reminding Ourselves of What is Important and What is Not

Have you ever read, seen or heard something that sticks to your mind like glue and just won’t go away? I have. It was an article that appeared recently in the New York Times.

(Yes, I do read the Times, but I don’t inhale.) Jancee Dunn, who covers personal health issues for the publication, asked the question: “What would you do if you knew you were at the end of your life?” An excellent query, worthy of reflection.

In the article, Dunn references palliative and hospice care experts about what they have learned from patients nearing the end of their lives. This got my attention because my daughter-in-law, Jackie, is a nurse focused on hospice care. I can think of few tougher jobs than dealing day-today with those who know – and you know – they are going to die. Of course, we all will at some point, we just don’t know when. If we did, what might we do differently?

We might start by not putting things off until tomorrow because we have more important things to do today. It just might be that what we are putting off – like checking up on an old friend we haven’t talked to in a while – is more important than changing the sheets or washing the car. (Note: I paused at this point and called my longtime friend from childhood, Derrell Clarke, to let him know I was thinking about him. It was a call long overdue.)

Dunn talked to Dr. Vicki Jackson, president of the American Academy of Hospice and Palliative Medicine Board of Directors, who obviously has seen and dealt with death and dying throughout her career. Dr. Jackson told her she is quick to let patients know she loves them. Nothing is more important than loving and knowing you are loved.

When my dad passed away, the family was waiting in a small room at the hospital for confirmation. When the doctor came in with the news, the first words that came out of my mouth were, “I have no regrets.” And I didn’t. I loved him and he loved me. I didn’t have to think back on things I wished I had said or done differently. That’s the greatest tribute I could pay the man.

When my 20-year-old grandson, Zack, died unexpectedly while training for an upcoming marathon, I remembered that the last time I saw him was as he was leaving our house. He held out his hand to say good-bye and then remembered sheepishly that I don’t shake hands with those I love. I hug them. That hug will sustain me for the rest of the days I may have left.

Experts tell Dunn that hospice patients say they miss the little mundane things in their lives. Ordinary things like grocery shopping. Walking the dog. Exercising. Mundane things that aren’t so mundane when you are no longer able to do them. I will try to remember that when I am putting away the dishes or filing paperwork or opening the mail. And to be thankful I still can.

And the small stuff? If we knew our days were but a precious few, how important would the small stuff be? Not very, I suspect. Yet, how much time do I spend fretting about something that happened to me in a yesterday that is gone or worrying about a tomorrow that may not come? In doing so, I miss a spectacular sunrise, forget to say thank you, don’t return a smile and obsess on all the things wrong in this world rather than being grateful for all that is good. I have just wasted a day I can’t get back.

Finally, Dunn says those dealing with hospice patients will often ask them what have they left undone, something they have always wanted to see or do. Personally, I have seen just about every cathedral in Europe, been in the Oval Office, survived a roadside bomb in Iraq and have a painting hanging in the state capitol. What else is there to do? Actually, a lot.

I need to remind myself that at any moment I could be one of those souls in hospice care. To realize how fragile life is. To take nothing for granted. To have no regrets. To know the only thing that really matters is that I leave this a better world than I found it. I’m not there yet and I have a long way to go. I thank Jancee Dunn for the wakeup call.

You can reach Dick Yarbrough at dick@dickyarbrough.com or at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta, Georgia 31139.