A year ago today, my geologist underwent major open-heart surgery. Our surgeon opened his chest cavity, stopped his heart, repaired what was broken, replaced what was worn out, restarted his heart, and restored his capacity to live the healthiest life possible. There was no guarantee that the surgery would be successful, and no promise that he would live to see another day. But then, there never is.
Today is all we have.
A year ago today, we began the relentless pursuit of finding our way through what life served up post surgery. It’s been a year of stops and starts, unexpected setbacks and hoped for comebacks, dark nights of the soul and the joy that can come in the morning. Through it all there was no promise that we would live to see another day. But then, there never is.
Today is all we have
A year ago today, we didn’t know how much work it would take to regain his strength, or if he ever would. How many trips we would take to the ER, how many x-rays would be required, or how many more procedures necessary. We did it the only way any of us every do anything. We did it one day at a time, knowing that there was no promise that we would live to see another day. But then, there never is.
Today is all we have.
A year ago today, we didn’t know where we would be now. Today, we don’t know where we will be tomorrow. Or if we will be, tomorrow. If this past year has changed us at all beyond the new hardware in Tom’s heart, it is that we are more grateful, more hopeful, more present, and more aware of this precious thing called life than ever, knowing that there is no promise that we will live to see another day. But then, there never is.
Today is all we have.
