Yesterday I wrote about living to 100. A bit of a whimsy and yet not.
You know that feeling when something gets cancelled and suddenly it’s as if you have a surplus of time?
Three years into lorlatinib and sustained stability I entertained the notion that perhaps I’d been cured. And it was lovely. I grew up in Colorado–a landscape of wide vistas. The idea that I might actually live opened up a similarly endless space inside my head.
Unfortunately that fantasy was dashed and I am back to a much more compressed vision of the future.
This morning I was still thinking about 100, and what a luxury it would be to simply assume I’d be around for a long time. I know people whose grandmother lived to 106, their mother to 97. Longevity runs in their family, like a generous inheritance. And a foregone conclusion.
And yet, of course, the shit could hit their fan too. There are no guarantees. However, on a cellular level, it has got to be a good thing to operate under the assumption that you’ve got a whole bunch of time left.
I used to set my clock five minutes ahead, just to trick myself into not being late. And it worked. I mean, I knew it was a set up and yet it got me out the door earlier.
So what if I stopped planning my life in three to six month increments? Lived not as is this was my last day on earth, but rather the first of many?
I’m gonna give this a go. The worst that could happen is something I was already planning on. But you know? Sometimes plans change 🙂