An Unfinished Life
Sometimes at night I find myself staring into the abyss, parading as the white popcorn ceiling above my head. As the hours trickle away, my mind bubbles into a whirlpool with images and dates and lists. At 23, I’m kind of neurotic, always thinking six weeks ahead of my present. I’m racing against an invisible clock. I haven’t always been like this. When I was 16, three events culminated in a matter of four months and permanently changed my outlook on life and the longevity of it, or sometimes lack thereof.
On Christmas Eve, 2011, my Pop’s life ended. I can’t say it was cut short because he graced the world with his presence for 82 years, but it didn’t seem like I had enough time with him. In January of the following year, I was diagnosed with a benign bone tumor and scheduled for a risky operation to have it removed. For someone with scant health scares, this news caught my breath and kept it. The day before my surgery, March 6, a teacher was fired from my elite prep school and returned to campus that afternoon, murdering our headmaster before killing himself. It’s these images that flash through my memory at night like a grainy vintage film. I’m sitting with my Pop on his screen porch three hours into a game of Parcheesi. I’m lying in the MRI machine uncertain of the mass living on my fibula bone. I’m waiting in the dark classroom, three bells echoing in my ears, fearful of what’s happening on the other side of the door. It’s these memories that fuel my fear of an unfinished life.
After my sophomore year of high school, I became intensely aware of time. In the span of a few weeks, my Pop had gone from feeling healthy and strong to withering away in the ICU from a bad case of pneumonia. In the span of a few days, I went from a five-hour dance practice to a broken and limping person, having discovered the foreign body attached to my leg. In the span of an hour, my headmaster’s life of 63 years was severed, and my school, knocked off its feet. I worry about not having enough time in this world to do everything, be everything.
I battle this phobia with an extreme case of CPS, chronic planning syndrome. I know I can’t control when I leave this world, that’s up to the big G’s discretion, so instead, I try to control everything else. I make lists of everything I need or want to do. I arrive early to every meeting, class, commitment. I volunteer for leadership roles, hoping to be slightly more in charge of my fate. And I miss out on things because of it. I was a free-spirited child, running full steam in whichever direction the wind blew. Most of my adventures happened because of spontaneous whims, and I don’t have those as frequently anymore. Sometimes I feel like I’m 23 going on 73, unable to break out of my routines and my comfort zone, or maybe unwilling.
I don’t advocate for this kind of mentality. It’s better to accept that we can’t control everything, and just enjoy life for the moments it gifts us. I’d certainly prefer to do that, but it’s easier said than done.
Three months after the tragedy at my school, I boarded a plane to the Dominican Republic. I signed up for a service trip that June before any of those events occurred. We arrived in San Cristòbal and were overcome with the contrast that exists there. The streets are lined with beautiful bright red Royal Poincianas, or “flamboyant trees,” but they’re also lined with trash. Wide grins met us at the gates of the orphanage. Those little boys were a God send. Their favorite game was to bring us tarantulas in a cup and wait for a reaction. The key was not to react, or you would have a tarantula thrown in your direction, a fun game for a control-freak. Jokes aside, it was unforgettable and those boys were special to me because in spite of their circumstance they had fun. We were just kids playing with other kids a world away. Before we left, I bought a ring at a flea market that’s reversible, one side a powder blue and the other a golden amber. I’ve worn that ring every day for the last seven years. Sometimes when I’m anxious, I twist it in circles around my finger. Then I look at it and remember the boys at that orphanage and their enthusiasm for life. It’s my daily reminder to worry less about an unfinished life and focus more on enjoying it while it’s here.
