It's all about the dash between the dates

It was a conversation about life and death; about the mysteries of both. A conversation brief but powerful, happening at work as my friend and I pruned and cleaned plants. A conversation that ebbed and flowed as we assisted customers and returned to continue our exchange of words. 

“You know,” my friend said, “many people have said the same thing but when you say it it’s different, it’s comforting."

“When I say what words?"

 

“That you’re not scared to die."

I don’t want to die yet. I hope my time isn’t near. But if it is, I’m not scared to die because what a beautiful life I’ve lived! And it’s this sentiment I’ve repeatedly expressed to my friend, a sentiment designed to calm, a sentiment I believe.

I didn’t always think this way. Like most everyone I know, the thought of death filled me with dread and uncertainty. Why would this — my life — need to end? I don’t want it to end. I’ll hate the end. Thinking about it made me upset and angry.

But then My Favourite Husband (MFH) died. Myriad feelings surrounding his death rattled through me. I questioned everything, especially in the first few days. Nothing made sense. It wasn’t fair. He was too young and had so much life left to live. Look at everything he’d miss. Look at everything he didn’t do; we didn’t get to do.

The funeral service for MFH was a private gravesite service. It had been raining that morning, an extra dollop of sombreness to one of the toughest days of my life. I drove to the beautiful Alberta country cemetery myself and arrived first. The funeral director and priest were already there. As I waited for family to arrive, the funeral director and I walked towards the grave where MFH would rest. As we walked, the funeral director stopped in front of an older, weather worn marker. He softly said to me: “On each grave, you see a date of birth and a date of death, separated by a dash. Those dates are important but do you know what’s even more important?" I shook my head no. “It’s the dash. The dash represents the life that was lived." 

I looked at him and nodded my head in affirmation. I wish I could say it was an 'a-ha' moment and what he said made the day easier. It did not. Not that day or truly any other day in the ones that followed.

As time passed, though, and I picked my way though the devastation that was my life, as I fought and clawed to survive and thrive, as I went from we to me, as I figured out that I was going to be happy and whole and me, just differently … that’s when I thought about what the funeral director said. That’s when I thought about the life I was building with all its twists and turns. That’s when I thought about how I’d stumble and succeed, sometimes at the same time. That’s when I thought about the dash — my life — about taking risks and chances, about learning and growing. About living life. About the dash. 

That’s also when I knew that I was OK dying. I am OK with dying because I’m OK with living. 

Time can bring many things, clarity being one of them. When I think back on how MFH lived the majority of his life, he lived it how he wanted to. And although I wanted more years for him to do more, see more, the years of his life — his dash — were lived fully. And I smile.

I hope that when the last line in my book has been written and the people who love me lay me to rest, they look at the dash between my dates and smile as well at my life well-lived.