Do not worry about how you will die? Worry about how you live.

I just left from the third diagnostic ultrasound on my breasts in less than two months. The radiologists kept seeing something and kept asking me to come back again and again. My first reaction is always one of panic.” I am going to die! This is it!”

I frantically squeeze pinch and feel my breasts over and over in the mad dash that I can discover the malignant spot. My breasts become sore red and chaffed from the constant rubbing. I bargain with God for a little more time. At night I awaken to the pounding of my heart in my throat as I choke. I become so engrossed with the immanent arrival of my death I cannot focus on both the immensity and the niceties of my living.

After getting put through the ringer, once, twice, thrice, however, I have gotten to the point of stoical resignation. I am a believer so that changes how I confront my mortality. On the train to Sloan Kettering Lauder Breast Center, my fear of dying ebbed into another thought: who cares how you are going to die? What is more important is how you are going to live? I know I am going to die. Why am I so concerned about the how and when of the million ways of it. What does it matter if I have a year or ten or 25 left? The obsession and anxiety that surrounds our death overshadows the object of our real living.

Slowly, my anxiety transformed into keen mindfulness. What I came to realize it that I should be less afraid to die than to live– haphazardly mindlessly carelessly. It’s always good when a bump with death awakens one to the supreme concern which is life. I suppose this period of heightened mortality has forced many of us to consider the perennial existential questions: What is the meaning of life? How do I find it? Who am I? How do I live the life I am given? The pandemic has peeled away the layers of existence and forced each and every thinking being to grapple with the existential questions ? Who am I truly? What are my values?

When I think of life red beating and screaming in my hands that should be more what I focus and fret about. Not how I am going to die but how am I going to live. This thought should strike fear in all of us. It’s easy to die. The script for it has already been written. But to live and to live rightly? That’s the real ordeal.
Who cares how you will die? Worry about how you live.

I just left from the third diagnostic ultrasound on my breasts in less than two months. The radiologists kept seeing something and kept asking me to come back again and again. my first reaction is always one of panic. I am going to die this is it. I frantically squeeze pinch and feel my breasts over and over in the mad dash that I can discover the malignant spot. My breasts become sore red and chafed from the constant rubbing. I bargain with God for a little more time. At night I awaken to the pounding of my heart in my throat as I choke. I became so engrossed with the immanent arrival of my death I could not focus on both the immensity and the niceties of my living.

After getting put through the ringer nice twice thrice however I have gotten to the point of stoical resignation. I am a believer so that changes how I confront my mortality. On the train to Sloan Kettering Lauder Breast Center my fear of dying was replaced with another thought: who cares how you are going to die? What is more important is how you are going to live? I know I am going to die. Why am I so concerned about the how and when of the million ways of it. What does it matter if I have a year or ten or 25 left? That overshadows the object of my real living.

Slowly my anxiety transformed into keen mindfulness. I am less afraid to die than to live haphazardly mindlessly carelessly . It’s always good when a bump with death awakens one to the supreme concern which is life. I suppose this period of heightened mortality has forced many of us to consider the perennial existential questions: What is the meaning of life? How do I find it? Who am I? How do I live the life i am given? iThe pandemic has peeled away the layers of existence and forced each and every thinking being to grapple with the ultimate es question what is the meaning of my life? Who am I truly? What are my values?When I think of life red beating and screaming in my hands that should be more what I focus and fret about. Not how I am going to die but how am I going to live. This thought should strike fear in all of us. It’s easy to die. The script for it has already been written. But to live and to live rightly? That’s the real ordeal.