THE Truth IS…

BY EMILY MORRISON

I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW HER. I saw her on Facebook and read her story. Late 30s, early 40s, mother, stage 4 metastatic breast cancer. They were trying to raise money for treatment, and I donated. My heart went out to her.

So, when I saw this morning at the beginning of a new year that her life had been cut short, I don’t know why, but I deleted my Facebook app. Then I deleted my trashy romance app and wondered, “What other devices are distracting me from the truth?”

The truth is this: I’m dying, and so are you.

I grabbed my new sneakers, my two dogs, and a red hat (in case today was the day some hapless neighbor shot me in my backyard), and we headed out to the blueberry fields to shake off the feeling of impending death together.

Boiling it down, I think my childhood is the reason I fear death.

As a cradle Catholic, educated on the flames of hell and the rooms in the holy father‘s mansion, I’ve always known death is not the end of life. It’s what happens after death that terrifies me. If you’re good, you go to heaven, see your family, and claim one of those spacious rooms in the mansion in the sky.

What you do there, what you look like, or whether the streets are golden or cloudlike — none of this ever took shape in my mind. I only knew the afterlife was there, somewhere, waiting for me the moment I ceased to be.

I also knew the other place was there, flames licking at my feet, open crosses waiting to be stretched across, should I end up turning my back on God.

Maybe that’s why, throughout the entirety of my life, I’ve instantly recoiled at the thought of death, because, honestly, I haven’t gone to church enough, prayed enough, said the rosary enough, or kept all 10 commandments. Sure, by the world’s standards I might look like a decent human. But inside I’ve always known the moment my life ceases to be, it probably won’t end well for me.

So, what do I do in the face of such stark reality? What does everyone do?

Distraction.

I worry about my cholesterol, but rarely get it checked. I inject my face with neurotoxins every four to six months and pray for perennial youth. I give up meat, eat salad, drink protein shakes, and pretend that age is just a mosquito buzzing around my head while saying “Yes!” to every illusion of endless life.

I read the books, watch the movies, buy the infrared facemasks, and keep telling myself that the cancer, heart disease, and illness that plagues others will never find their way to my door. And I lie.

I lie to myself that time, that invisible commodity we all assume we have more than enough of, isn’t ticking away but expanding on the horizon like a sparkling mirage just over the next hill.

But today, thinking about her sweet face standing beside her family, I can’t pretend the same ending doesn’t await me.

I cannot pretend that my life is timeless.

As I run, I tell myself, “It’s time to write a book, time to stop reveling in my own pleasure or misery, and start thinking about what matters, who matters, and what I absolutely need to do with the time I have left.”

I decide to call my parents more, spend more time with them, make love with my husband, hug my children, cuddle my dogs, run with my sister, laugh with my friends, and love my people harder.

It’s always love, isn’t it? Spreading it, making it, sharing it, it always comes back to love.

Because the truth is, I’m living, and so are you.

So love on.