For me, living means trying to have no regrets along the way. Being honest, treating people kindly, making the best decisions I can for me, for my family. Not lying, not cheating.

I’ve talked to others about their regrets. All were along these lines: Didn’t take such and such job. Didn’t go here or there. Regretted sleeping with him or her. Didn’t make my mark on the world. Lots of regrets.

And if *you* died tomorrow?

For me there are only two….

That I should have spent more time with my grandfather. The one who lost the fingers on his right hand when I was 7 and never, ever wore his fake hand because it scared the heck out of me. I told him it felt bad (I’ve always been a tactile person) and that it just wasn’t him. I remember him very proudly (and after much practice), showing me he could tie his shoes and button his clothes without his fingers. That’s when I learned thumbs are really important. I rubbed the creams on his hand to help the scar heal.
He died not knowing his present family. Not Alzheimer’s, but a skull fracture from falling out of bed in the hospital after a very minor car accident. As near as we could figure his mind was stuck as young adult. He didn’t know his wife, his children or his grandchildren. The last time I saw him he took my hand, looked me straight in the eye and said “Rosa, why don’t you come to see me anymore? I miss you.” I was so stunned I couldn’t even tell him I loved him before he slipped back into another time and I was a total stranger again.

That I didn’t have the courage to listen to my friend Dave when he needed it the most. I moved to Colorado with him and his wife Josephine in September, 1975. Wonderful, caring people and so full of life. A few months later he smacked his knee at work. After a week the pain was still pretty bad. He worked day labor-humping furniture. No insurance. I was the one who yelled at him; told him he was a stubborn goat, to go to the doc before he found out he had cancer or something. He went and he did. Bone cancer-21 years old. He didn’t live 18 months. He asked me one day if he could talk to me about his death. I told him no. I fuckin’ told him NO. Just couldn’t go there. I was 19. He hugged me, told me he understood and that it was ok. All I could do was cry and tell him how I didn’t want him to die…

Not bad for 49 years, I guess. If I died tomorrow I couldn’t fix these two, but I have learned from them.

Notes:

You asked me once long ago Anam Cara, if these stories were true, particularly the one about my Grandfather. I remember looking you in the eye and lying. Telling  you they were just stories. Curious because I felt sure you recognized the lie for what it was; my own self protection. I just couldn’t expose my vulnerability to you. Yes, my Anam Cara, sadly both stories are true. But both have served me well over the years.