Reflections from a Non-Reflective Human
Is the story I tell of my life real or make-believe? Or somewhere in between?
I haven’t always been a good husband. I haven’t always been a good father. A good son. A good sibling. A good friend.
I haven’t, of course, because I’m human. I’ve been a bastard to my wife. A mean-tempered father to my kids. A son who loves his parents but has shirked some responsibility as they’ve aged. A brother who doesn’t check in nearly enough. A friend who can go ages without communicating with people I love.
I have doubts about my character. Am I more show than real? I think that sometimes. Some days it makes me feel bad. I want to be good. I want to do the right thing. But I don’t always do it.
I am human.
These questions return over and over now that my cancer has metastasized for a second time. I look back at my life and sometimes the story I tell about myself seems pumped up — more fiction than fact.
It is and it isn’t. Maybe that’s true for most of us. I’m not sure.
I’m not a very reflective person. I like the now. But I also think I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’ve absorbed lessons, become more wise.
Cancer has made me both more wise and more selfish. I want to take care of my relationships, and I want to do the things I want to do. Time is finite. I think at times that has meant that I pay less attention to others who matter to me. And I’m sorry if that is the case.
Trying to do the right thing is the goal. It’s an unattainable goal one hundred percent of the time, of course. But it’s something to shoot for.
I’m working on it. I’m sure we all are.
We’re human.
