Rulers, Pay checks, or Coffee Spoons? How Do You Measure a Year?

Courtney

Paper coffee cups.  Laughter.  The warmth of a child sitting on my lap.  Cell phone games. Friends.  In one swift elevator ride, all of that comfort was replaced with an achy, hollow feeling that settled itself in my chest.  Smeared mascara.  Hoodie sleeve tissues.  My second last kiss.  I was suddenly aware that the hospital smelled like sanitizer, salt, and sickness.  I wanted to leave.  I wanted to run to my car and drive as fast as those four wheels could roll, but I didn’t.  I told my friends to go home and I waited with my family for the funeral director to come for Dad. 

For a while after Papa Bear’s death I carried that hollow feeling with me constantly.  Now, almost four years later, the Beast only rears his ugly head every so often.  I don’t know if that feeling ever really fully heals after losing a parent, and part of me doesn’t want it to.  Every time my heart constricts in that way it is kind of a reminder of the man I carry with me. Because of this I have noticed that I have a bit of a problem. 

They say that the first step is admitting to having a problem.  I am not entirely sure who “they” are, but “they” may be onto something.  Once I admitted that I needed to fix myself, life became so much lighter.  You see I, Courtney Taylor, do not know how to measure.  I am not talking about busting out the ruler here.  I am talking about life.  How am I measuring life? 

One day I looked down at my coffee cup and silently wondered just how many cups I go through a year.  Then, I started thinking about other everyday things that I so very often take for granted.  How many smiles are there in a year?  How many hand written letters?  So for one year I want to chronicle the journey of bettering myself.  I want to stuff the days with too many pictures and not enough sleep.  Let’s go zip lining.  Let’s be kind to one another.  Let’s all take the time to smile more.  Let’s measure life differently this year.  So pack an overnight bag, come on, and bring your jukebox money.

Heather

On a March day, much like this one, my life changed with one phone call.  It was a short call—maybe two minutes in length, but in that time I learned that Dad had been diagnosed with cancer.   The months that followed were filled with doctor’s appointments and treatments.  I began carrying a bag that became known as my hospital readiness bag.  It contained snacks, tissues, bottles of water, books, notebooks, and pens.  Days blurred together as I put in a day at work and then either went home or to the hospital to see Dad.

On July 30, 2010, my life changed again.  I don’t remember the exact time, but it must have been late because I remember it being dark outside and the main lobby was nearly deserted.  My sister and I had been on the sixth floor with family for several days straight and had gone to the lobby to talk to some friends who had come to check on us.  When our brother stepped off the elevator, my heart sank.  The next several hours are a blur to me.  I know that we rushed back to Dad’s room and I know that there were tears.  I know that I couldn’t be in the room or even in the hallway when the funeral director came to take Dad away.  The next thing I remember is sitting at my Nan’s table with a cup of coffee thinking that I couldn’t go home because at home it would all be real.  I wasn’t sure that I could stand waking up in a world that didn’t include Dad.

My sorrow swallowed me and I buried myself in work.  If I stayed busy, I didn’t feel the emptiness.  One summer evening I was driving from my apartment to Mom’s and I passed the truck that Dad used to drive.  I reached for my phone to call him—and then I remembered.  I put the phone down and thought about what he might have said to me if I had been able to call him. 

Dad was a character.  He had a story for every occasion and he talk to everyone—for hours on end.  At the funeral home, people told me stories of their adventures with him.  He had really lived.  There were stories of motorcycle rides, senior pranks, parties, and truck pulls. 

I will always carry my grief for Dad, but, like my sister, I need a lesson in measuring.  Instead of measuring my days with meetings and time spent behind a desk, I need to start measuring it in the things that really matter.  I need to spend more time with friends and family.  I need to spend more time doing the things I always promised I would do later.  There is no more “later.”  There is only now.  My sister once asked me, “We all know life is hard, so why are we so mean to each other?”  My question is this: We all know life is short, so why don’t we make the most out of each and every day we’re given?

See the theme? 

This year, I’m going to really live and I’m going to share my story. 

Are you ready? 

I am.