From My Mind to....

Mortality

Yesterday was a Monday--a typical, proverbial, miserable start to a week.  Normally, I rather enjoy Mondays, probably because my weekends are so seldom my own.  At least I enjoy my work--I make things out of wood, for those of you who don't know--and Monday lets me get back to something that gives me a lift.

Yesterday I learned that my younger brother passed away in his sleep.  He was only 54, but suffered from emphysema caused by heavy smoking for MANY years. We received word last September that Rick was in the hospital battling pneumonia aggravated by the emphysema, and wasn't expected to survive.  My wife and I made the trip to Myrtle Beach to see him ... and he survived, thankfully surprising the doctors, who had told use there was no chance for him.  So hearing the news yesterday was not unexpected.

So I laid in bed this morning, thinking, wondering and worrying about my mortality.  My Mom died at 57 of congestive heart failure--she was pleasingly plump (her words) and a smoker for years, and now my younger bro passes at 54.  I suppose my risk factors are lower than theirs, but who can really know.  I don't smoke and I exercise, but I don't particularly watch out for what I eat.  Actually, Rick is the reason I've never smoked.

I was in high school when my two brothers and I were tasked with painting the house one summer.  Rick gave me a cigarette to try--he was 13 at the time and smoked for two years.  I lit up, then hoisted the paint bucket up the ladder to the third floor window to continue painting.  I got so light-headed from inhaling that I almost fell off the damn ladder.  I never smoked again.

I admired him in a number of ways.  He was both popular and very good with the ladies ... uh, girls.  Me?  I was painfully shy.  I used to think I invented that term.  He was pretty good in school; I was average.  Along the way, though, I think he made a few wrong choices, as we all do.  I loved my brother, but I'm glad for the choices I made for my life.

Rest in peace, Rick.  I know your quality of life was poor these past few years.  I'm good knowing you're not suffering any longer.  And perhaps I might get to learn one more thing from you--take care of myself.