When the news hit last Wednesday that Luke Perry, 80s heartthrob, had suffered a stroke, I paid attention. Not because I had been a rabid 90210 fan back in the day. Truth be told, I never really watched it. Rather what caught me short was the math - I did not know for sure, but doing the "years algebra," it felt like we were peers. And a stroke? Ugh.
Way too young.
Yes, young.
I am 52, and I do not consider myself to be old, no matter what my 20-someting self once considered fifties.
This morning, the news broke that Luke Perry had died. The stroke he had suffered had been so massive that his brain simply could not recover, even with the medical sedation he had been placed under by doctors. As I read the initial reporting, what my math had suspected was proven right.
Luke Perry was only 52.
And to use the verbiage of the much younger - I am shook.
We all have these kinds of moments when a celebrity, past or present, suddenly succumbs. We immediately remember how old we were when we discovered the person, how they impacted our life, how they contributed laughter, pathos, excitement. And then we stop and feel vulnerable.
Yes, "recent" deaths like David Bowie, Penny Marshall, Alan Rickman, Burt Reynolds, Aretha Franklin - they all make us stop short. But most can be shaken off, a little at least, with the coping mechanism of "they were older than me." Peter Tork of The Monkees just passed away, but that math reminds me that they were a thing when I was born. I only discovered them in their afternoon rerun renaissance in the 70s.
Of course older people die.
But this feeling today. Luke Perry was not older. He was ME older. And it makes me realize that a whole other age bracket is going "he was older than me."
At 52, sitting a month out from 53, the landscape around me is becoming riddled with obituaries, accidents, decay, and the heinous word "cancer." I watch as dear friends fight mightily only to be overtaken. Others battle and their bodies are able to win the round, knowing there is no guarantee that they get to leave the ring - just that for now, all is well. Still others are being diagnosed and beginning their own fights.
I still ponder my husband's brother's untimely passing a year ago. He was younger than Rudy, but slightly older than me. And in a blink, he was gone. It's just wrong, out of place, not the order things should happen.
And just now, as I am typing, Rudy is texting me updates from local search and rescue who are out searching for one of his employees gone missing yesterday in a back country avalanche. Only in his 40s, two high school aged kids. They have found his dog, buried, gone, which does not bode well for the man. This is the second missing in two weeks.
Yes, I understand the inherent risk in the two deaths I just mentioned. I live somewhere that is deceptive. The beauty is overwhelming, but the danger is everywhere. Whether a fall or collision while skiing, a slip on the ice while walking to get the mail, or the thunder of an avalanche caring not who is in its path - accidents happen frequently.
And accidents I can internalize, process, rationalize the deaths that often come from them.
But today, I sit here thinking about my own head. Don't laugh. We're all made up the same way. Organic beings, replete with delicate mechanisms that rely one to the other to function. And at any time, we can malfunction. Cancer, tumors, aneurysms, clots, disease, strokes - we tend to take for granted how easy it is to overlook all the ways our systems must work in harmony to keep us chugging along.
But then, when you're laughing with friends, running a marathon, playing in the surf on an idyllic beach, traveling to a new destination, planning for <insert exciting event> - we're not exactly keyed in to the hows and whys of our internal timepiece.
Which I suppose is how it should be. I have always thought that the best way to leave this life is to just go to sleep and wake up wherever we wake up when this is over. That is how my grandmother passed. Old, asleep, over and out. But maybe, the best way is to have been so engaged in living that the leaving is a total surprise.
To be out there back country skiing, to be running a 5k, to be playing soccer with a pick up league, to be planning a wedding, a graduation, an exhibition.
Those last three are not listed by accident. I have a daughter who is recently engaged and we are excited about the planning, the dress, the everything. Another daughter will graduate with an advanced degree from Harvard next year. And our son is tearing it up in art school, a school I will visit this Friday night to see him stand with his work, chosen for the yearly student exhibition. I don't want to think about not being there for all these things.
But dammit, Luke Perry, you have me thinking. You never saw this stroke coming. It just came. My deepest hope is that you were engaged, involved, laughing, reading, scrambling eggs, planning a trip, rehearsing lines for a show. That you were LIVING, in the moment, of the moment.
To all my friends and loved ones, especially those in my age bracket who sit like I am, taking stock - please take care of yourselves. See your doctors that you might live longer. Take precautions that accidents might be avoided. Love hard, today, with the hope that you can love harder tomorrow.
But above every test, cautious movement, and embrace - LIVE. Run towards your life. Think of the things you have always wanted to do, and do them. Ask yourself this one question:
What would you do, where would you go, who would you love, talk to, hold close?
Perhaps the biggest gift is that while we all know we will die, most of us will simply will never know the when.
I am still angry, mourning the passing of my heartfriend, Jackie. She was not ready to go. It wasn't her choice to leave so soon. But her body had other plans. She knew the clock was ticking, the time was short. And I will be forever humbled at how her thoughts, her efforts, her love were all directed towards the people in her life. To Christmas gifts, not personal pain. To a wonderful dinner, not personal fear. To loving as hard as she could because soon she would not be able to.
She knew.
Randy and Stacie - your mother was a force. A beautiful, bountiful, mouthy, funny, fierce force of nature. She would have given anything to stay with you, to see all the little ones grow up. But in her absence, know that she wants so much for you, for your life ahead. When you falter or stand still because the next step is hard or scary, feel her hand (or foot) pushing you, encouraging you to run towards your life.
Amy - I need you to stay well. Cancer cannot have another go at you. This world is so much better for every breath you take in it. Every child you work with knows love and caring and encouragement. Your family orbits around you. Your love and spirit and grace are breathtaking to me.
Jamie - kick its ass. Your diagnosis and all that comes next has to be a bump in the road. Your light is far too bright to be diminished. The people in your life need you in their lives. I need you in mine.
Dad - remember, you will die with it, not from it. So please, stay active, GO, DO. There are still so many bad jokes to share, grandchildren to see excel, weddings to attend, cruises to take, horizons to explore. And more years to spend loving that incredible woman by your side.
To my other friends battling cancers, tumors, supporting loved ones in dire straits in the hospital, recovering from accidents, illnesses - your lives are not less for your battles, they are more. And your strength is an honor to behold. Please, stay.
And to the rest of us, privileged to be taking this breath and the next, blissfully unencumbered (so far) - savor each experience. Treasure each sunrise, sunset. And keep moving towards the horizon - it is there where all things are still possible. Don't take a single second for granted because a single second, a single breath is the difference between possibility and permanence.
Run towards your life, and if we are very lucky, we will be living it right up to the moment, like Luke Perry, it is over.
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