Mortality is absolute. There are not many absolute truths in this life, yet we are often searching for them. In the process, we forget the two most certain truths: we will live, and we will die.
I am very aware of how uncomfortable the topic of death is. No one talks about it, at least not people my age, but we all know of it. I think, to some degree, we believe we’re invincible. Nothing ‘bad’ could ever really happen to us. No, those are the kind of stories you hear about other people, not you.
Becoming acquainted with hospitals and chronic illness has given me much time to ponder death. Before living with chronic illness, death frightened me more than it does now. Don’t misunderstand me, it’s still a scary thought. I’d not want to diminish that. But it’s different now, it’s less of an abstract terror. It’s more of a quiet truth that’s simply part of being human.
I am thinking about mortality this week more than usual because I have surgery tomorrow. It’s a more invasive surgery than I’ve ever previously undergone, and there are a lot of factors going into it.
For context, I have a benign tumor called a leiomyoma that is slowly growing in my GI junction – it curves into my esophagus and stomach. Honestly, it’s more of a nuisance than anything else, which is why it’s being taken out. From there, hopefully, some things will get better.
The surgery itself should be simple, but we’re a bit more concerned about the anesthesia. I won’t quite go into that – mainly because no one really has answers, so I myself am not really sure how to explain the concern. Just know I have an atypical reaction to anesthesia, as of late.
All that to say, tomorrow feels tender. I’m not writing this because I think I’m going to die; that would be less than ideal. It’s also not really something I’m worried about, just thinking about. What I am trying to say is how precious this life is.
We hear it all the time. From sweet sentiments like “make every moment count” to funny slang like “YOLO”. There’s a general understanding that we get one life, and one should live it well. But, if it is our first and only time living… how do you know you’re ‘living well’ – what is the ‘key’? Is it marriage? Owning a home? Having a well-paying job? Having a good social life? Sure, if you come at it logically. Those are all objectively ‘good’ things. They aren’t the ‘key’ though.
I think you know by how much of you exists in the present moment. By being where your feet are, not worrying about the past or rehearsing the future. So much of my life has been wasted spending it somewhere I was not.
Perhaps it was woven into the nature of life, when you’re in school, you’re being prepared for college. When in college, you’re being prepared to work. When you’re working, you’re preparing to move your way up. You get the picture.
Which is why I’m writing this, to be where my feet are.
Initially, I wasn’t sure I wanted to share this. It felt heavy. Dark. How do I write that I’m thinking about death – but not in a concerning manner, in a reflective one?
I considered waiting until after surgery to write about the experience. I would have some resolve by then. Perhaps some better words to say.
After some reflection, I know how important it is to me to look back and know I was present. Not obsessing about packing, finishing my to-do list, or dwelling on how the surgery might go.
Just here.
Sitting on the floor of my room, letting the words flow out.
Just being.
Aware of how lucky I am to have a loving family, amazing boyfriend, good friends, a cool job, sweet coworkers, and a cozy, warm home to hide away from the cold, rainy weather. And more.
Tomorrow, I’ll meet that hospital room again. Being poked, prodded, cold, wearing a hospital gown, and the center of unwanted attention. It’s truly humbling to have someone taking care of you 24/7 and you’re kind of just at their will.
From the dust we came, and to it we shall return. That absolute truth used to feel heavy and dark. Now, it’s light and grounding.
Dust is humble. It’s a reminder I am not self-made. I was formed in my mother’s womb intentionally; I was already known and fully loved before the beginning of time by the same One who created the galaxies.
If I am dust, I do not control tomorrow. I don’t own my life. I don’t hold the galaxies together. I can ease up, relax, and rest a little.
Fear cannot have the final word where hope resides. In the uncertainty, there’s comfort in knowing I don’t know what’s next. Instead, the present is a gift meant to be received and lived in.
My time, your time, it is finite. It was always meant to be.
Finite doesn’t mean meaningless, though. It means ordinary moments on bedroom floors and lying in hospital rooms can become holy ones. You just have to remember to be where your feet are and look to the One who created you.
This is the holy ordinary. And it is enough.
—
Matthew 6:26–34 ESV
[26] Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? [27] And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? [28] And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, [29] yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. [30] But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? [31] Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ [32] For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. [33] But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.
[34] “Therefore, do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”
Ari Miranda 
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