Holding on to Time

The relevance of time hits hard on the southbound slide of life. Memories have more meaning. Places have nostalgic value, and old friends are rare and cherished.

When we were the kids, we gave no attention to nostalgia. We were too busy creating our own memories to pay much attention to the wisdom of our elders. In the turn of a moment, we are the elders.

Two screens stare back at me for eight hours every day. There have been many different screens edging their way into my soul over the past 35 years. I stare back at them, wondering if I have a soul?

I snap out of it, realizing I do have a soul. My soul is intertwined with my beautiful, intelligent, and charismatic daughter. She is my heart, my soul and my muse.

My father died when I was 9. I spent my life knowing very little about him amongst the drifting of the families. I knew he was a war hero in the Korean Conflict, but I knew nothing about what he did there. I knew he was the superintendent of a coal mine, and I got to fish off the coal barge in the river.

All in all, I remember little snippets of my brief time with him. A sledding accident that earned me six stitches in my chin. I remember crying out of pain, but more out of fear. I remember Mom telling Dad that if any of us got hurt, he would be taking us to the hospital. After walking down over the hill, we met her on the porch. She had no chance to "I told you so," before Dad said, "I know, we're going."

This is my most endearing interaction with Dad. He turned my sorrow into laughter as we sang with the radio during the trip. He soothed me as I tried to escape the stitches, and we stopped to eat on the way home.

These are the memories that sustain me. These few insights into his heart and character made me know he was the best dad in the world. A massive heart attack removed him from us at an age that was far too young. Our family began to dissolve.

After the age of nine, all information stopped.

As I stare down the tunnel of demise, my overwhelming urge is to tell my daughter everything I can about me.

It has always been my belief that the meaning of life is, well, death. We start chasing that goal at our first breath, hoping not to catch it. Our time is longer when we are young. Our time grows shorter when we get old.

It is our job to pass on knowledge to those who are forming behind us. We are to get that next generation ready for the time when they wish for more. Once the wisdom has been passed on, the ultimate goal will be within our grasp.

I am sure it is just the perception of time that throws us. A minute is 60 seconds. That fact never changes. Yet, given the relevance of the time spent, it seems that a minute can be either 1 second or 10 minutes long.

I wish I could just have back some of the time I wished away. I wish for all the times that 3:29 lasted ten minutes until clock-out to be returned. I wish for all of the time I have waited for people to show up while watching my watch, to be returned.

The time I want now can never be returned, no matter how hard I wish. The unfortunate thing is that I still wish time away. I still want that 3:30 to get here quicker. I still want time to yield as I wait for important events. I still wish time away between my daughter's visits.

As I start to see time as finite, I realize how much I could have done or planned while the minutes crept by. My mind could be put to better use than counting down seconds.

It seems that all the world's troubles could be solved if everyone used that idle time to find solutions. We can gather all of the wasted time and spend years on implementing plans. It would be wonderful.

The irony is that time, having been productive, negates the idea that it was wasted. No matter the circumstances, that time can never be recovered.

I thought I had forever; boy, was I wrong. Months go by like weeks. Years have escaped my grasp when the little girl I held, who was about to experience the world around her, graduated from college last month. She has surpassed all of my hopes and dreams. She is, and will always be my hero.

It is the remaining time I have on this earth that is making me rush to tell my stories. She has, of course, heard most of them while growing up. I want them to be a physical representation of her father's tales. I want her to have what I do not, a true account of her father.

I want her to be able to pass my wisdom, or lack thereof, to her offspring. She can then pass on her knowledge in the predetermined cycle of life.

I want her to be proud of my accomplishments. I want her to learn from my many mistakes. Want is not the right word. I need this.

I need her to understand the life I lead and the life my future will hold, no matter how much time I have left. I need her to remember the grandparents that she was raised by, along with her parents. I want her to have the desire to reach even further back.

I do find that writing about my past brings comfort. I no longer waste time waiting for the clock; time often escapes me, and 3:30 comes and goes without notice. I have a mission, and it must lead to a fast conclusion.

I still feel the pain of the brick of time slapping me in the head. The relevance of my time remaining has become the most significant aspect of my life. I need to record my knowledge to pass it on. I need to complete my mission.

I can bemoan the lack of time left, or I can choose to see it as an opportunity. I choose the latter. No more time will be wasted. That precious commodity must be used productively.

Now, irony raises its head again. Being productive will make time go by even faster.

It is amazing the difference in time relevance after the realization of finality.

All over one final diagnosis.