The Tenth Anniversary of the Rest of My Life
I don't know the exact day I sat on a bench in a cemetery and decided how the next part of my life should go. It was sometime in February, 2016. I wished I'd marked it somewhere, because it really was an important day. But my brain was distracted with life: the parts I could change and the parts I could not.
I wasn't on that bench to mourn anyone. At the time both my parents were living, though their health was starting to fail. In the years before, Dad's Parkinson disease progression had stalled with medication. Now it was picking up steam again. The strain of caring for him wore on Mom, who was experiencing health problems of her own. I'm not a doctor, but I believe many of her health issues, while absolutely real, were stress-related. I didn't keep a tally of the days and nights I spent in the emergency room, but I know those visits pulled me from work, from community responsibilities, from plans with family, from home in the middle of the night.
There was a morning, not too long before that day on the cemetery bench, when I locked the keys in the car at the office. I called the nearest police department to see if they could help. The responding officer said the department wasn't supposed to do that anymore, but he drove out and helped me anyway. "I bet you have a lot on your mind," he said, and his voice was kind. I looked away so I wouldn't burst into tears. The night before was spent in the ER. (Officer Rescue Man, if you're reading this, you're my hero.)
I couldn't afford to start crying then. In a few minutes I would be in the office, talking to co-workers, pretending everything was OK. That was what I did, what I thought I had to do.
I couldn't change what was happening with my parents. I could not change the fact that I still had some parenting of my own to do before the nest emptied for good. I was getting older, and there was nothing I could do about that, either. The only hard place in my life that I might possibly walk away from was my job. Husband and I did the math. It wasn't ideal, but it was possible. I made my decision on that cemetery bench. I drafted my resignation letter the same day.
The experience forced me to ask myself some tough questions. At one time, success looked like a high profile job. That day, success looked like happiness, and that's the definition I've gone with ever since.
The months after I made that decision passed in the weirdest blend of apprehension and joy I'd ever experienced. I eventually set up my own solo company and worked for myself for three years. After the first year I was nearly replacing the full-time salary on a flexible, part-time schedule. I helped my parents and devoted more time to my own parenting.
A lot has changed since those days. The nest is empty. Dad passed in January 2018. Mom passed in January 2024. I've gone through my own grieving after each loss, but one thing I don't have to deal with is heavy regret. I was there. Not always with total patience or perfect judgement, and there were still days I longed to be two places at once. But I was a lot more "there" than I would've been if I'd stayed on the path I was on.
I'm back in an office now, doing career-lady stuff. Still, that cemetery bench holds a sacred place in my heart. Thank you, memorial bench. We both know life is short.