The Gift of Time

“The world, our lives, our daily bread, our loved ones, our opportunities, our challenges and difficulties—all are gifts.”

~Gunilla Norris, Simple Ways: Toward the Sacred. p. 105.

On January 17, 1981, on a cold winter night, the UNM Pit was flooded. A sea of fans, a tsunami of Lobo Red, swirled and crashed as a game ebbed and flowed. In section 15, row 32, seat 18, a white-haired man abruptly clutched his chest - his own tidal wave of fear and pain erupting, pounding him and pounding him, even as storm-driven waves pummel helpless sea craft lashed to unprotecting piers.

Sweat broke out as he clamored step by arduous step, higher and higher toward the concourse. The oblivious thousands saw only the game, missing the more dramatic contest of will unfolding in their very midst.

Life, or death. This “either/or” faces us each moment, but it seldom swamps us, overturning our lives, strangling us, forcing our attention.

Unlike the drowning man who bursts through the surface and gasps for air, there was no relief for this man once he negotiated the top step. Now the question was, could he make it to the hospital.

The above scene exists in my imagination. I wasn’t there, but I visualize my stubborn, ex-Navy, sail-around-the-world Merchant Marine, farmer’s son--my Dad —making his way step…by…step…by step up and out of that fifteen thousand seat would-be coffin.

My mother’s voice on the phone was clear and real. “Your father’s had a heart attack.”

Now my heart began to race, my senses seemed to separate from me, and my eyes teared with pain.

There’s nothing like a good emergency to summon up the demons. My mind was suddenly flooded with self-recrimination. What had I said to him the last time we met? Had I dropped by just to ask for money? Had I shared only my problems?

I carry unforgiving regret because I had promised myself time and again that I would spend time with my grandfather - but waited until a received a fatal phone call too late. Would this be my fate once more?

Two months later my father lay on the operating table. He had quintuple bypass, open-heart surgery. I imagined that his heart had been plucked out of his chest, cut from the five arteries which sustained his life, and then reattached.

I vividly remember peering through the hospital door window to see my father covered with sheets and hooked to tubes. When they let me in, I shuddered as I watched my father struggle just to catch a breath.

And I vowed that day to never waste a moment of time I was fortunate enough to receive with my father.

For the most part I succeeded, and was far richer for it.

He lived another 29 years and 10 months.

Each day was a gift.

References:

Norris, G. B. (2008). Simple ways: towards the sacred . New York: BlueBridge.