Nothing brings home the fragility of life like the sudden and shocking passing of a contemporary. As we (I) age, the potential statistically increases. But as we get better at diagnosing disease and denying its demise, we almost get arrogant - if not complacent about just sort of living forever; there will be another tomorrow. Hanging around with relatives who blow through their 90s, and some who reach 106 - that perception of "eternal youth" is further skewed. My personal experience with sudden passing is well documented, but you’re still never really ready for it. “He was so young” is more than just a sorrowful and sincere condolence, it encapsulates our sadness and serves as a sobering reminder.
I'm not even sure where this is going - my literary path is not always clean and clear (literary path - hahaha, that's a stretch). This isn't necessarily about cancer and its potential worst outcome. Nor is this the trite but true treatise of "live every day as if it were your last" . . . though that is valid and worthwhile advice that too few heed. As a result of recent events that hit closer to home - in the Freehold Family, I guess I was moved more than usual. No - I haven't grown desensitized to death and dying - mine or anyone else's. But now and again, a floodplain develops from the steady flow of the life/death cycle which we can normally keep at bay, and sometimes overruns our banks of emotional tolerance/management.
It's all good. With any luck, Monday will become Tuesday, Tuesday will become Wednesday and the show will keep going on. I don't fear my own mortality. I'd like to think that I've made the world an incrementally better place than when I came in. As far as we know, I won't technically be aware when it's over, so I'll just keep falling forward. Mourning those that have passed, appreciating what I have, making mistakes, trying to do better - and just keep on truckin'
