Sitting on the Deck, Chatting about Life

How clarity and quality of life didn’t show up until death did

Sunset from the front porch on Peoples Court. (Photo: Rodney Margison)

My husband and I were sitting on the back deck a few nights ago, enjoying a break from the oppressive humidity, each with a glass of bourbon. As we talked about life, my father-in-law sat with his green-bottled Heineken, watching bluebirds pop in and out of the house he built. He didn’t hear a word we said, and randomly blurted each move the birds made. But I suppose that, too, is life; a life different from our discussion, but it’s his life.

We often talk about life while on the deck, because it’s a visual and environmental reminder of how far we have come in our nearly 35 years of marriage. We are grateful for this life, but we weren’t always.

Twenty years ago, “life” simply meant surviving—surviving underemployment, surviving in marriage, and surviving mental illness—oh, and ensuring the survival of our children.

We had hopes and dreams and goals, but those were more fantasy than reality—survival took all our energy and focus. Hope only made us miserable because we didn’t see far enough in the future to the day when we could pursue our creative arts—and eat dinner without worrying which bill would have to wait in order to pay for the food.

Ten years ago, our sons were moving away and launching into new worlds, which left us to figure out what we wanted to do with the second half of our lives. That time came with so much grieving for day-to-day life with our kids. When you’re in the battle, you don’t realize how quickly time dwindles away, and you lose moments and opportunities you will never get back. Life is so short.

Five years ago, I turned 50 and we celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary. My husband and I finally were beginning to have experiences separate from our titles of Mom and Dad, and our economic upturn meant we could both pay our bills and enjoy adventures—and, yes, pay for dinner.

Two and a half years ago, our lives took a generational turn when my husband’s stepdad became ill and unable to live on his own. He moved in with us, and we again adjusted to an existence with limitations and responsibilities. Day by day, we felt ourselves slipping away.

In just a few weeks, I will celebrate my 55th trip around the sun. I remember when my granny turned 55–I thought she was so old. Now I’m facing the double-nickel birthday and feel anything but old… in fact, I feel better mentally, physically, fiscally, creatively, and emotionally than I ever have.

When I evaluate why I feel so much better, I can easily pinpoint catalysts for that change—seeing doctors that listen, switching careers, letting go of “shoulds,” releasing my children to live their own lives, and putting more value in how I feel about myself than what others think.

But the greatest motivation to change was watching both of our mothers take their last breaths.

You can fear death, wonder about death, or live carelessly not thinking about death at all. But nothing reveals how precious and short life is until you watch death.

The first few years after that felt like death was hanging over me, taunting me, stealing the life I neglected. Slowly a blanket of metamorphosis settled over my gloom and weaved its fibers through my sad heart and my worried, turbulent thoughts. A faint scent of possibilities seeped in as words floated through my mind like a tone-deaf earworm. “This is the only life I have.” And then “I want to be happy” joined in. It didn’t take long before “I matter and I deserve to live the life I want” completed my mental mixtape.

The symphony of words transformed and moved me in the direction of clarity and action. I had finally realized I needed to free myself of trying to run other peoples lives and simply experience my own exactly as I desired.

I started by looking deeply at my health issues and getting medical attention for imbalanced hormones, insulin resistance, and ADHD. Too many people aren’t willing to make the time, energy, and financial commitments for good mental and physical health—I was that way for a long time. I’m telling you, friend, it’s worth every effort, minute, and dollar. It will change your life.

I’ve changed what and how I eat to better feed insulin resistance and ADHD. I have a cardio program that I enjoy and have actually stuck with, even though I’ve had days off and changes in duration. I listen to my body and do what I can. I stopped overcommitting myself and trying to “make” people like me. In many areas of my life, I’m embracing the Idina Menzel lyrics: “Let it go.”

My mom neglected her health until a sudden multisystem failure landed her on life support for days and significantly altered the last two years of her life. I don’t want to be surprised by treatable health issues simply because I didn’t care enough about myself to get help.

Despite my efforts, I’m an imperfect human. I don’t live my best life every single day—but I wake up striving to do so. Those who live with me or are within my social circle know that I don’t just have bad days, I have “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days”—but then I wake up, find a way to forgive myself, and give it another shot.

Life may not feel wonderful at times—or even a lot of the time—but being given a chance to experience existence is a miracle I took for granted until I saw life end.

If I had made these positive changes decades ago, my life could have looked much different, easier and happier. But then I would have been an entirely different person and I would have missed the journey to this good place I find myself. The journey is where we evolve and grow and learn to embrace who God made us to be. As cliche as it sounds, the journey is what life is all about, because we can’t control the destination or when it will arrive.