Life is People
If you had one more day to live...
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Dear Bolu,
You hope a second opinion would help, but it doesn’t. The prognosis is the same—you won’t live beyond the following week. Cloaked amongst medical jargon is the certainty of your impending demise. It is signed, sealed and almost delivered. And there’s you, without deliverance or any hope thereof. The doctor says he is sorry, and it saddens him that he’s unable you help you in the twilight of your dawning life. Sadness. What does he know about sadness? You are enveloped and overcome by it to the point where you feel wretched. Helplessness is never enviable, more so when one’s life is on the line as yours is. You’d give anything for a lifeline, but death would rather die than let you off the hook.
Despair. Who do you blame? Your parents, perhaps, if only it were a genetic disorder. Corporations, perhaps, if only you drank polluted water. You yourself, perhaps, if only you were facing capital punishment for your crimes. However, there’s no one to blame. There is no soul to curse for your reality. Curses. You’ve never been the saint with the purest soul, but you’ve tried to be fair in your dealings. You return the excess change you’re given at the supermarket. You bless the train traveller beside you when he sneezes. You greet the man at the gate with a smile even after a bad day. You toss a coin to beggars and witchers whenever they come around. You’ve done good, at least relatively. Yet here you are, with the unfortunate and unmerited news that you shall be gone in a little while and no sooner spoken of in past tense. “She was a lovely girl”.
Nothing is ever promised tomorrow. You know this, and so does every other breathing man and giant. Yet you’ve lived without accepting it, as do many men and giants. It’s hard to help it. The heuristic that we’ll be alive tomorrow is useful, and it works until it doesn’t. It’s hard to live like there’s no tomorrow until, of course, we are assured, as you have just been, that there is no tomorrow. You realise the flowery dreams that you’ve shielded from the sun for so long will never get to bloom. And that you’ll never see your people again. You’ll cease to be—not because of old age or some wrong you did. You’ll cease to be just because—
Oh well.
What would you do if you had just one more day to live? If you made a list of those activities, what would it look like? I suppose it won’t contain a lot of things because, for one, you can only do so much in a day. Scratch that. It might include many things because for once in your lifetime—which in this context, I should more aptly call your deathtime—you might realise just how much you can do in a day. You would, verily I tell you, subdue any spirit of procrastination. And regardless of the number of activities on that list, I’m inclined to think that it would matter more who you did them with than the activities themselves.
Jim Collins once said, and I quote, “life is people”. In fact, his wife said it, and it has stuck with him as much as it now sticks with me. I’m inclined to argue that life is people and things, but having had a few things to my name, the most valuable of which includes a hair comb, a comfortable pair of slippers, and an empty cylinder of Pringles, I can safely conclude that life is just people. You can take the quote to mean whatever you think, of course, but generally, it suggests we place more emphasis on our relationships. In a way, we know this—we know that our relationships are important, and we should cater diligently to them. But we constantly need to be reminded about it because we forget. The heuristic that tomorrow is promised as long as we don’t do anything stupid—say jumping in front of a moving train—encourages us to put off mending broken relationships to the next day. It affords us the confidence that we can pay off all our relationship debts in the future as long as we use a seatbelt when driving, turn off the gas before going to bed, confirm the expiry date of processed consumables before munching, and get eight hours of sleep daily. Yes, the heuristic works, but someday it mightn’t. And when it doesn’t, I hope our accumulated debt isn’t so much.
If I had just one more day to live, I think I would be content scrolling through my contacts list and calling everyone on it. If they miss the call, I will text them. I’d get a word out to them through any means. I’d apologise to them for not reaching out sooner and for missing their calls. I’d turn on my camera during the call and reveal the bowl of mashed potatoes that doubles as my face. I’d tell them I’m alive and well, and I’d wish them the very best. I’d write poems for my family and friends—including the lost and forgotten ones—and apologise for my prosthetic love. Indeed, I’d write a couple of things as I don’t think inspiration would elude me. I’d read the things I’ve written, as well as a chapter of any book by Charles Dickens. I do not think I would write code to fix any bug or implement any feature. I probably won’t be on Twitter at all, but I’d return all my WhatsApp messages. I’d scroll through my gallery. I’d look up some Epictetus quotes on YouTube, for obvious reasons. I’d watch highlights of the club I support. I wouldn’t see a movie or an anime except it’s with a friend. I’d take a cold bath and sing to Becky G’s Shower in the shower. I’d perfume my body more generously. I’d have a handkerchief at all times because I know, for sure, that tears will fall. I’d watch the sun set and say goodbye to the moon. I’d pray. I’d scream. I’d pray again. And for once in my lifetime—deathtime, in fact—I’d write you an honest letter, dear friend.
Fin.
P.S
I wonder what doctors go through when they lose a patient, especially one they have known for a long time. It happens in the course of their duty, and they must be strong enough to meet the next patient with care, tenderness, and attention. To see someone pass away and simply move on to the next order of business is not easy. Breaking the news of someone’s death is not an easy task either because you quite literally see them sink, bury their heads in their hands, or watch them lose their composure. Doctors. I wonder whether the losses make them more appreciative of life and, therefore, kinder people. I wonder if the opposite is accurate, and it makes them nihilistic and more inclined to live an unbothered life. I wonder if they break and what happens when they do. I wonder how they fix themselves up. Being a doctor is tough. It takes a great deal of courage to live endlessly like that and not lose yourself.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy
Oh wow!
I love this! This is so thoughtfully deep as I want.