A Little Closer to Death

Driving with my son yesterday to take him to basketball practice he suddenly asked, “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Are you a little closer to death?”

It caught me off guard. It isn’t a conversation we normally have. But it was Ash Wednesday, the topic of the day is remembering that we are dust and unto dust we shall return. We enter the world with nothing and leave it with nothing. Perhaps death is the topic of conversation for the day.

I didn’t know how to answer, honestly. I know that I am but I also know it God-willing isn’t imminent. All I could say is, “well yes, everyday we are all a little closer”…

“But with your brain injury, mom said that you are”

“Yes, I’ve lost a few years of life but it will be ok”

The conversation moved on but it bothered me. Dropping him off I went to Church for Mass where I became acutely aware of how different my life still is. The Church was packed, so much so that they had to announce for people to scoot in to make room as there was no where to sit. As I tried to process all the sights and sounds I felt overwhelmed the entire Mass. I became aware that in the past, none of this would have bothered me. The bright lights, the loud organ, the people all saying the prayers at slightly different paces all around me, the lack of focus and inability to follow the Homily. All of it. Too much.

I stepped outside after Mass into the falling snow, stepping into a puddle from the rain of the afternoon and becoming aware that I was suddenly irrationally angry at getting my foot wet. But even though aware, unable to stop being so. But that question from my son continued to nag in my mind. I knew my answer I had given him wasn’t good enough.

When I picked him up from practice I had ashes on my forehead from Mass. Everyone glanced and saw and looked away as I passed them. It was a fascinating experience. Living with an invisible injury, I have walked that same path everyday picking up my son without notice. Now with something visible on my forehead, 90% or more people noticed me as having something different. The blessing at times of an invisible injury, and other times the curse - to not have it noticed.

As we drove home in the car, I told him what I had realized I didn’t answer how I should have - I don’t know when I will die. Today, a year, ten years, or fifty years from now. But no matter when it is, I loved him everyday and his brother and sisters and mom and I’m grateful God gave me the time I have had here with him and all of them. The day I got hurt, I could have died. That could have just been it. But it wasn’t then. Every day since then is one more day I get with him. Every day is one more chance to see his smile, his love, his growth into who God made him to be. I’m grateful to be alive for that. I told him, my situation is different than a lot of other people and so in that sense, I may be closer to death with the difficulty my brain and body has experienced from the injury. But being closer doesn’t mean I am yet. I told him I’m grateful for every moment, and someday, even fifty years from now, if I die, I hope he’ll pray for me to be in Heaven and I’ll pray for him from there and will be excited to have him love others every day on earth until he one day goes to Heaven too. It isn’t the conversation most fathers have with their ten year old on the way to basketball practice. But I was grateful that I got to have it with him instead of three years ago someone else trying to explain why I didn’t survive my injuries and that it wasn’t his fault. I’m a little closer to death, but, aren’t we all?

Our life is different than it used to be with this injury, but the question from my son reminded me of the simple truth that today is still given and I’m still alive for it. My day looks unusually different than it used to and things are more challenging than anything that can be seen from the outside. But marked with ashes reminding me I’m going to die someday and I need to be ready for heaven - that is no different than the reality for anyone else. We all are. I hope and pray I can be ready, whether it is today, ten years from now, or fifty. There are times with brain injury it can cause wondering if it would have been better if you just had died. Today, in this moment, wasn’t one of those times. I was grateful to be alive to talk with my son, to see his smile, and to share in ashes together reminding both of us that God didn’t make us for here, He made us for Him.