I can manage if I pretend these are my last days. As such, I scale back any and all expectations. I shift from waiting to living, from living to being. What would I do with my last days? Precisely what I am doing. I would write. I would take a walk, slowing my pace considerably and lengthening my loop. I would talk to my mother on the phone. I would make something in the kitchen. I would ride bikes with my daughter. I would read a bit, listen to music, and watch late night television curled on the couch next to my husband. I would take note of the day’s shifting sunlight, the birds at our feeder. I would pet the cat and dump the compost. I would have a glass of wine with dinner, and draw my daughter’s bath. I would call a friend.
What is missing from this list are the things that have been missing from my life for the past nine months (incidentally, the gestation period for a whole new human). Some, I have happily gone without: dental appointments, buying stuff, attending children’s birthday parties nearly every weekend, troubleshooting the copy machine at work (ok, that’s a lie. I always rope someone else into fixing it), using public restrooms. Others, I miss so much it craters me: actually seeing friends and family, hugging them, and sharing a meal. Or, barring that, knowing when I will be able to again. Moving through densely peopled places without anxiety. Overhearing my daughter play with a friend in her room or watching them collide gleefully on the playground. Helping others in ways that are familiar to me. Attending a yoga class in the studio or visiting the library. Accompanying my parents to mass. Shaking a stranger’s hand. Believing tomorrow might be better.
And then I course correct–remind myself that tomorrow is irrelevant. There is only today, and it is good.
Well, then 