Life is Fleeting

Life is fleeting. This week, my wife and I mourned the loss of one of her high school friends. I often accompanied my wife to their periodic reunions, which they held several times a year. Just two years ago, this friend visited our home with other high school batch mates. They all shared a joyous time together.

But earlier this year, we were devastated when she was diagnosed with cancer. In just a few short months, she passed away. The abruptness of her departure was jarring for both of us. It felt as if the diagnosis was a forewarning of her life’s swift conclusion.

I can’t fathom how she felt during those months, whether she held onto hope or dwelt on her past and the limited future ahead. I don’t know if she was ever given hope for recovery. But the time between her diagnosis and her final moments in the ICU felt like a profound countdown. Every ticking second must have carried existential weight, likely altering the quality and intensity of her final moments.

A few weeks ago, another incident occurred. I met with my old friend from our graduate school days. As we grappled with our theses and dissertations, we constantly exchanged thoughts and ideas, mutually inspiring one another. I had the privilege of being his best man at his wedding decades ago. It was then I met his sister, who was also embarking on a career in academia.

Over the years, I’d occasionally hear updates about her through my friend. Shockingly, a few weeks back, I received news of her passing while she was a professor at a university. Maybe the pressures of her job affected her health, leading to her untimely demise. The news left me deeply saddened and even angered, thinking of my friend’s grief.

The pandemic brought more sorrow. One of my wife’s cousins, a promising IT professional, tragically passed away following a COVID-19 infection. Similarly, my wife’s uncle and her cousin’s husband succumbed to the virus. Their lives, rich with potential for further blessings and joy, were abruptly and unfairly truncated.

My wife’s elder sister, born with cerebral palsy, spent nearly fifty years largely confined to her room, experiencing the world in limited ways. Remarkably, she lived beyond the average life expectancy for individuals with her condition. Her passing several years ago still lingers in my memory, especially the moment her life-support ventilator was switched off.

My father labored relentlessly for our family. I remember his late nights, consistently working to meet deadlines. As a professional pianist and arranger, the piano was his lifelong companion, accompanying his growth in the Christian church. But in his youth, he dreamt of being a jazz pianist. Life, however, required compromises. The pressing need to provide for us led him to focus on arranging music, a role with steady income.

Sadly, his unyielding commitment culminated in a brain stroke, paralyzing half his body. The piano, once an extension of him, became an unreachable dream. He endured years of rehabilitation with hopes of playing again, but it wasn’t to be. An aspiration-related complication led to pneumonia, which ultimately took him away nearly a decade ago.

There have been numerous other incidents that shook me, as lives ended abruptly and, from my perspective, unjustly. Why? Why were these individuals taken so soon?

Each had lives I deeply respected. My wife’s high school friend supported her through thick and thin, especially during her sister’s passing. My wife’s sister, despite her physical constraints, was an embodiment of spirit and resilience. Her room, her world, was filled with an angelic presence. We learned that wisdom transcends worldly intelligence, but we don’t mystify her existence to justify her limited physical experience.

My best friend’s sister’s passing also deeply affected me. Though I didn’t hear about her often, our shared generational experiences and challenges evoked strong empathy. The shock was as severe as when we lost loved ones during the pandemic.

Indeed, life is fleeting. My own brush with mortality came during the pandemic in August 2021 when I contracted the Delta variant of COVID-19. With my blood oxygen levels plummeting below 80%, I lost consciousness for two days. In that haze, I hallucinated, hearing the voices of God and my deceased father. The emotions were intense, filled with peace and acceptance. Yet, I recovered, for reasons beyond my understanding, granted more time in this world.

When I remember those who’ve departed, especially recent losses like my wife’s friend, I’m consumed by thoughts of their final moments. Did they, too, hear voices, hallucinations or spiritual affirmations, in their last seconds? From a physical standpoint, these could be mere products of the brain. But spiritually, they might be genuine messages assuring us of an eternal love. At that pivotal moment, I hope we all find overwhelming peace, realizing that we are enough, and that God, in His infinite love, embraces us all.

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