It’s a question I ponder every time I part with my children. I teach in the college classroom, and I lived through a mass shooting.
But my kids don’t experience these emotions when they hug my neck and wave goodbye. They truly believe I will return.
And all the way to the office, I pray that they are right.
I hold this fear that I will die before I see 35. I worry I won’t know my son and daughter as teenagers. The very thought of never meeting my grandchildren, indeed, takes my breath away.
But I am overall healthy. I run 3-4 days a week. I don’t drink. And my days are fueled by oatmeal, nuts, and vegetables.
Recently, however, I was quite ill. Six hours of vomiting – to be exact. The virus was so powerful that I found myself gasping for air between commode encounters. On a makeshift bed of well-used towels – given to us at our wedding – I laid myself down. At 2 a.m. the Earth is silent.
Until, that is, I heard a door creak.
“I think I’m dying!”
“No, you’re not.”
And, with that, a hand I know so well rubbed my back.
