The Dash

It’s interesting how we celebrate the anniversary of our birth, and often mourn losing people on the anniversary of their deaths (among other dates/holidays). It’s intriguing in some ways because our birth and death do little to define us; it’s what we do in the middle – during the dash – that counts.

I had a high school classmate die recently of a massive stroke. We weren’t close – at least not since our childhood spent outdoors as neighbors. This boy and his brother, my brother and me, and two other brothers spent most of our early summers together. He taught me to be interested in slugs versus being grossed out by them. I wrestled him several times and even won a few times (I was so a tomboy). But as we grew up, we didn’t have much in common and grew apart.

I can’t tell you how he lived most of his dash. I know he had two young children. Was he a good father? Was he proud of what he’d accomplished? Would he be able to say he was sad to die so young yet feel he’d done all he could in 42 years?

I don’t know the answer to that for him, and maybe no one does. But it got me thinking about me and my mortality. I’ve lost four high school classmates already. Life is unpredictable – and sometimes tragically short. If I were to die tomorrow, would I be happy with my dash?

Every day I make choices. Who to see. Who to reach out to – or not. What to accomplish. Where to focus. At the end of the day, am I happy and proud of who I am, how I’ve grown, and what I’ve accomplished?

I don’t have a solid answer to that. But my mind builds a laundry list of perceived shortcomings: my struggles with depression, my perhaps barely adequate parenting skills, my inability to be vulnerable more often, or my lack of time to give to all the important causes. So many things I hope to still have time to accomplish.

But tomorrow is never a guarantee. Whether it ends courtesy of my depression claiming a final victory or a physical ailment or a sudden tragic event, death is always a possibility. And one that has become increasingly more fear-filled now that a small child relies on me in part to care for him. What if I’m not here tomorrow?

I grieve for the family of Ben, my high school classmate. I grieve for the past memories of him and how important he was to a segment of my youth and my journey. And I grieve the fact that no one is safe from the inevitability of death. It waits for us all, and we don’t know when or how it will strike.

So I try to focus on what I can control, which is not the length of my dash (although certain behaviors can alter this), but the thickness or mark left by my dash. It’s not easy. The length or potential lack thereof scares me. A lot. But I cannot ultimately change this, so what can I do to make it thicker while I am here? When I spend a day playing video games, I don’t feel enriched. I feel guilty and selfish, like I lost a precious opportunity. (I haven’t had that luxury to regret that for years…) If I spend the day, using my hands to benefit a non-profit, or spend the day feeling like I’m connecting well with my son and wife, it feels like a day well spent. A day with purpose.

Ultimately, you choose how to spend your dash. You get to decide what adds the most value or thickness to your dash. My advice? Reflect on it regularly, and choose wisely. We’ve only this one life to live. Dash it up.