What would you do if you only have three months to live? What would you do differently knowing that your hours are counted, your lease at life reaching termination?
The questions dawned on me as soon as John Mayer started blaring in the background. Suggestions like suddenly becoming benevolent and virtuous would be feigned responses and I'm afraid I'd be damned all the more.
There will always be that part that will tell you to start acting a little kinder and be a little bit more pious and it's perfectly okay. But if trying to earn a fast track access to the golden gate gives the reason to that action and not the drive to do good because it's something that I haven't tried and should do, then it only beats the crap out of me.
There will always be that part that will tell you to start acting a little kinder and be a little bit more pious and it's perfectly okay. But if trying to earn a fast track access to the golden gate gives the reason to that action and not the drive to do good because it's something that I haven't tried and should do, then it only beats the crap out of me.
I'm the gravely-ill Carter (Morgan Freeman) now and since I probably won't meet an Edward Cole (Jack Nicholson) in my sickbay, I can only do things that are well within my measures: no exhilarating skydives and jet-setting voyage around the world. Not exactly around the world like around the world but a French villa, the Egyptian pyramids, an African safari, the Taj Mahal, the Tibetan alps (was that Tibet?) and the Hongkong skylines is pretty much it. But I'm more than sure that there'll be the drama. And no less potent.
Here's probably what I would do on a more pragmatic and palpable sense:
First, I'd finish my pending credit recommendations and file for an indefinite leave. This will take me a couple of weeks most probably plus the goodbyes. Seven years of your life is still seven years. Never mind that it's been less than perfect, but when you breathe the same puffs of the air-con machine and smell the same dead-rat stink, people around become tinges of the ugly and lovely, the gloomy and ecstatic, the despondent and optimistic blobs on my shirt. And the stain would probably remain unbleached beyond the passing of another seven years.
Then, I'd go home and hug my mother tight (aww!). I'd kiss her every morning and my sisters and niece. Hug my brother every morning and my nephews. Cook them breakfast, lunch and dinner. Clean their rooms, wash their clothes. I'd probably abandon my repugnance to ironing for one day. I'd be a very loving son, a tender brother and a gentle tito.
I probably can't spend time getting a girlfriend. Not that it's too late and desperate but I can't be sadistic to my grave. But I'd probably write down that love letter in my head and send it. It won't elicit for a reply. If that's deemed pathetic then I'd be pathetic to my grave.
I'd show up at community meetings, probably accept an invitation to lead opening worship or talk a talk. Show up at two-round sharings and reunions. Give hand to the charity works.
By that time, I'd probably be as poor as a rat so instead of a jet I'd travel on a frigate of a book like a poem from my primary years. I'd finish my copies of Milan Kundera, Chuck Palahniuk and Arundhati Roy which I still haven't touched after grabbing them from the 'sale' rack. I'd probably learn about the sensitivity of Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea in the after-life.
I'd pen down an entry to the Palanca. I know I will not win, but the mere thought of having sent one is already a prize far bigger than me. I was sorry I didn't get enough of confidence to e-mail that article to the Youngblood until Inquirer thinks I'm no longer 'young' enough to send one.
I'll send long e-mails to pals far and wide. In it, I'd apologize about my failure to reciprocate or even deserve the brand of friendship I have been accorded. It will be brimming of gratitude.
By the time I finish crashing out these items, the sands may have been emptying the upper bulb fast. But before I get all corners covered, I'll stand in front of my father's grave as a tough guy who filled his cup full.
Then, I won't be able to try the world's highest bungee in New Zealand or witness the majesty of Sagrada Familia for myself. But it's okay. I'd probably can't write a book and talk to Paulo Coelho in person and it would be alright. I'd probably bring my cavities to my grave with the warts on my back and I can't give a damn. I'll be the tough guy who filled his cup full.
The movie talked about a survey with 94% responding that they wouldn't want to know when they would kick the bucket. If I'd be Carter and gravely-ill, I'd probably list myself among the 6%, but it would be a different tape if I'm my ass-kicking self right now. I'd probably spend half of my last ninety days calling on to the heavens why me and why now.
I woke up this morning reminded that the visit to the dentist would be over the weekend. I'm glad I can still lay out plans for travel in August and never mind that I'd be hitting the storm (because there'll be a long weekend in August and on no other periods after P-noy became a spoiler of the holiday economics). I'm looking forward to watching the many movies I missed and finding the classics on the 'sale' rack in the bookstores. We don't know what will happen tomorrow but still we wake up and make plans – that's hope. Some of these plans may seem out of our league but still we continue to believe that someday we'll get them – that's faith. While not achieving those plans may wound and break us but still we find reasons to lick the cuts and bruises and be swathed in the strappings of love. These fill my cup.
Then my list will probably be longer than the seven items or so spelled out above. Like Edward Cole, I'd probably get a tattoo. Or do a Carter's extremely weak 'laugh until I cry, help a complete stranger for the good or witness something 'majestic'. Good or nasty, I couldn't care less.
There would be many things that I'd do differently. To add to John Mayer's refrain, I'do what I need to do and change what I need to change. And then when I'm a tad better, I probably won't use 'probably' so often again in a write-up.
"Say"
Take all of your wasted honor
Every little past frustration
Take all of your so-called problems,
Better put 'em in quotations
Say what you need to say ...
Walking like a one man army
Fighting with the shadows in your head
Living out the same old moment
Knowing you'd be better off instead,
If you could only . . .
Say what you need to say...
Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You'd better know that in the end
It's better to say too much
Than never say what you need to say again
Even if your hands are shaking
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open
Say what you need to say...
"Say"
Take all of your wasted honor
Every little past frustration
Take all of your so-called problems,
Better put 'em in quotations
Say what you need to say ...
Walking like a one man army
Fighting with the shadows in your head
Living out the same old moment
Knowing you'd be better off instead,
If you could only . . .
Say what you need to say...
Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You'd better know that in the end
It's better to say too much
Than never say what you need to say again
Even if your hands are shaking
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open
Say what you need to say...