On the Clock
FIRST WAS THE VOICE of my father’s friend. Then a policeman came on the line. While riding his bicycle, my 75-year-old father had been struck and killed by a speeding driver.
That was 2009. There were no goodbyes. Instead, seared into my memory are the photograph I was shown at the hospital, so I could identify my father’s body, and the details in his final medical report, which I never should have read.
My death will be far different. I’ve been given the time to straighten out my financial affairs, savor some last experiences, spend time with friends and family, and set HumbleDollar on a course that I hope will ensure it continues to thrive.
Needless to say, my version of death seems preferable. Like everybody else, I have a finite lifespan, but mine involves far less uncertainty. My truncated time has brought into sharp focus what’s important and what isn’t. I refuse to spend my remaining time being angry about my cancer diagnosis, or feeling cheated, or wondering why I got the defective cancer-causing gene, or bouncing from one cancer center to another in search of a cure that doesn’t exist.
Instead, I’m determined to make the most of every day, doing what I love and trying mightily to fend off life’s nonsense. It’s an attitude I recommend to readers—one I’d encourage you to embrace now, rather than waiting for a dire medical prognosis. We should never forget that our most precious resource isn't money, but time.
I’m no fan of motivational speeches and feel-good pop psychology. Still, at this moment, I’m willing to embrace one piece of bumper-sticker wisdom: Happiness is a choice. It's highly likely that my days will draw to a close within the next few years—for those with my diagnosis, the median life expectancy is 16 months—and there isn’t a whole lot I can do about it, other than follow the treatment plan, eat healthily and continue to exercise. But I can strive to make the most of the days I’m granted.
So, what do I mean by “choosing happiness”? No, I’m not angling to have some laughs and a few drinks with buddies. Rather, I have a vision of the future that I want to see fulfilled. I want to die knowing I’ve built something—a sound future for my two kids, a good life for Elaine, and a solid path forward for HumbleDollar. If I can put the necessary pieces in place, I’ll be happy.
Crazy as it sounds, Elaine and I are even exploring remodeling the upstairs bathroom, with all the disruption that’ll be involved. It’s something we discussed before my diagnosis. I’d love to get the work done for Elaine's sake, plus the feeling of accomplishment would make me happy. Yes, despite the late hour, making progress still gives me a profound sense of satisfaction.
Even as I strive to make the most of the here and now, sadness occasionally creeps in. I find myself pondering the retirement years I won’t have with Elaine, or how my three-year-old grandson will have scant memory of me, or how I’ll be nothing but a photograph to his newborn younger brother. Such moments sometimes hit me in the early morning, when I’m alone in the basement, spinning away on the stationary bicycle, the tears mixing with the sweat.
Moments of irritation also occasionally creep in. Soon after I got my diagnosis, it seemed the insurance company was dragging its feet, taking far too long to approve my treatment plan. I was bothered by the delay. But mostly, I was bothered that this bothered me—that I was wasting time being angry at some lumbering, unresponsive insurance company. That meant a day that wasn’t as good as it could be.
Still, despite the brief moments of sadness and irritation, the days seem pretty good right now. I’m continuing to work hard to keep HumbleDollar chugging along and to prep the site for a future without me. I’m spending more time with Elaine and my kids. I’m feeling mostly fine and, indeed, my only major complaints are the disrupted sleep that accompanies the steroids I’m taking and the fatigue caused by the chemotherapy.
I'm hoping this happy state will last for at least another year, but there are no guarantees. What about when the end comes? It’s hard to know what it’ll be like—which part of my body will give way, how much discomfort and pain will be involved, and how clear my thinking will be at that juncture. Still, in my wishful thinking, I have a mental picture of how it’ll play out.
After decades of pushing myself far too hard, I like to think I’ll gracefully acknowledge that cancer has the upper hand. And that’s when I’ll cut myself some slack, I’ll give in to the morphine offered by the hospice nurse and I’ll drift off, finally getting the sleep my body hungers for. Reality, of course, will be far messier. But this is the story I tell to comfort myself.
Jonathan Clements is the founder and editor of HumbleDollar. Follow him on X @ClementsMoney and on Facebook, and check out his earlier articles.The post On the Clock appeared first on HumbleDollar.
