365 Days Remain

Tonight begins my “Year to Live” journey.  Twenty-five of us are assembled in an open loft space in SoHo, sitting on black plastic folding chairs, facing the front of the room.

Robert “Chodo” Campbell, the co-founder of the New York Zen Center for Contemplative Care, asks us to close our eyes.

In his sonorous British baritone, he instructs us to visualize ourselves going to the doctor’s office.

“Really feel yourself in that space,” he instructs.  Gravely, he begins:

“We’ve got the results of your blood work and the scan, and I’m afraid it’s worse than we thought.  You have, at most, 12 months to live.  Go home and put all of your affairs in order.  The nurse can call someone to come and pick you up.  You can stay here as long as you need and collect your thoughts.”

I feel my palms getting moist.  Would my doctor really say, “Go home and put all of your affairs in order,” I wonder.  I’d like to think he’s got more soul than that.

What would he say?  “Go home and be with Dave and the boys.”  That’s better.  Dave and the boys are a hell of a lot more comforting than my “affairs.”

Chodo rings the large gong at his feet, and we slowly open our eyes.  Then he asks us to think about a couple of things.

  • Who will you tell?

Dave.  I’d have the nurse call Dave right away.

My mom and dad?  I wonder.  My dad recently turned 80, and my mom is in her late 70s.  They’d need to know, but not right away.

The boys?  This is unimaginable.  How do you break such news to a 9 and a 6-year old?

My brothers and sisters-in-law.  Yes, I can do that.  I need their support.

Susan, Deb, Joy, the Lisa’s…  My list of friends grows and starts arranging itself neatly in my mind.  I feel a bit of relief.

  • What does this change for you?

Wow.  It’s immediately apparent.  “I’ve got to get off FaceBook and email,” I say to myself with certainty.  Superficial, I know.  But it’s a start.

It’s clear that I’ll need all of my remaining days to think about these things.  I’m grateful that the Year to Live program gives me that chance.  Judging by the reaction of my friends, most people would rather re-do the SATs before putting themselves through a course like this.

As the evening winds to a close, seven of us jam ourselves silently into the tiny elevator.  Before we hit the lobby, we stop at the 3rd floor where a woman moves to get in.  Seeing that it’s full, she backs away with a start.

“I guess she doesn’t want to be with 6 dying people,” I quip as the doors close.

A classmate behind me says softly, “But there are 7 of us.”

“I wasn’t counting myself,” I respond.  Full denial has already set in.

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