On time, illness, and life

Do you ever wake up and think how odd it is that we treat time the way we do? We play through life as if were a resource to sell, compartmentalize, or consume. But you are actually time. Time cannot exists outside of you.

My coworker died last week. We were not close. I only crossed paths with her once or twice. All in all, I only have one strong memory of her. Yet, the news of her passing is saddening all the same.

Some of my friends were her subordinates. She was also close to other coworkers I talk to often. As a result, I heard a lot about her. Including her recent struggle with illness.

There were many aspects of her struggle that I saw myself in. Chronic illness brands itself on the ill with more than a few similarities. I empathized with her, as is human nature. And a small part of me wanted to reach out. But I didn't.

And now I can't — ever.

It seems worthless now. I am confused about what to do with the feelings I have. They seem inexplicable. It feels like I didn't know her well enough to feel this way. Yet, I know that is wrong. Feelings don't listen to rationale. The kindling has always been buried inside me, she just happened to be the spark that lit it.

Her passing resounds monumental because she was waiting for a heart transplant. My kidney transplant is now running on 10 years. Well past its expected halflife. I know my time could end just as suddenly as her's did. That is the fear.

She had her illness contained for many years. In fact, she was in line for a transplant. She'd even been admitted to the hospital awaiting one. She was close. Doors for her future remained open. We were planning her return. Abruptly, that all changed.

I see myself in a similar position. Planning for a long future that may never come. When I think about the things and people I've left on the back burner. I wonder how many of those she had. Did she wish to mend relationships she'd ignored? Were there projects and hobbies that she told herself she'd eventually get around to doing.

I feel selfish internalizing her death in this way. As a beacon for me to pay more attention to what matters in my life. Her death came almost as a punctuation as I finished reading Four Thousand Weeks By Burkeman.

The concepts presented in that book lay salient while I processed her death. Just like the doors closed for her in an instant, so could mine. This middling sadness is a foreign feeling. I am sad for her family. Yet, I the eye opening effect this has had on me is undeniable.

Whether this effect is positive is uncertain. Yet, it is like what the therapist from Ted Lasso says

"The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off".

Except instead of pissing me off, it's throwing me into shame cycles and confusion.