Exorcizing the “F” Word

Audio version now available.

“You don’t need to come. I’m not dying.”

My mom had surgery last week, and that’s what she said when she heard I was flying across the country to help my dad, and to spend time with her, after her surgery.

I think her response is part consideration for my busy life–not wanting to be a burden to her not-close-to-retirement son with a bustling family, and part defiance that the surgery posed any kind of risk for her. I get it.

And she’s right. I am busy. But damn it, I just keep thinking about my understanding of what people say on their death beds. In fact, that’s the filter I run most things through these days. When I think about my many career-related disappointments, and my relatively few other-related disappointments, I can already see how little the stuff from the past burdens me in the present. Death-bed people long for more time with the people they love. They never long for a little more time to complete a work project. At least the non-narcissists, that is. So when I think about how this project failed or that idea did not bear fruit, and I don’t let either weigh me down today, I know for sure I won’t be thinking about work stuff when I’m dying. So, who cares what I don’t get done this week. I’m spending it with my parents, whether my mom likes it or not, damn it.

There’s a lot of guilt in this trip for me. This isn’t my mom’s first surgery. She’s kind of a pro, actually. And honestly, this is the first time I’ve even considered making a bedside appearance. Maybe that’s why my visit is shocking to her. My sister isn’t even coming until I’m leaving, which says a lot. She’s a way better daughter than I am a son, and she’s not worried. After thirty years of living in the South, I am sure my sister’s thinking. “Matt’s showing up? Isn’t he precious.”

I think a lot about how I spend my time. I don’t think it’s because I am getting older. Honestly, I don’t. I know that old people think about their death beds, but I’m not having some kind of pending mortality crisis. Quite to the contrary, actually. Everything seems to be slowing down for me. Time is more expansive and tangible, and less stressful and terrifying. I think this is the result of post-alcoholism-recovery growth. It has fascinated me for years that there doesn’t seem to be a finish line when it comes to the evolution of a life without a toxin, and a life with mostly under-control compulsivity. I stayed up until 1am watching Instagram reels and eating sugar a couple of weeks ago. I felt like shit for two days, recognized why, and went to bed early without dessert for the days that followed. I’m far from perfect, but awareness and tweaky little adjustments seem effective. They feel like subtle, one-degree movements on the rudder. Not frantic wheel jerks, like my anxiety has instigated for most of my life.

I’ve just finished another season coaching high school soccer. There is no place where time is slowing comfortably more than on the soccer pitch. I coach in a relatively frantic environment, but I seem to be able to avoid getting caught up in the frenzy. I am still quite competitive, and I am sure my heart is pounding as I make decisions and dole out encouragement at the end of a close match, but it feels like the game is waiting for me to react, instead of the other way around. One thing is starkly clear: my demeanor correlates directly to the confidence and competence of the players. When I used to flail around barking instructions, my voice up an octave and several decibels, we played soccer sometimes like we were running from the bulls in the streets of Pamplona. Now, the players seem to be finding a balance where they can play hard and perform commendably without putting the weight of the whole school on their shoulders. Since high school soccer is not, in fact, a life or death experience, it feels appropriate that we now play as though awaking the following day is a near guarantee, win, lose, or draw.

Soccer is a tangible example of how as I detach myself from outcomes, I detach myself from frantic anxiety. That is the third time in this piece that I’ve used the “F” word. All good writers know that a thesaurus is overrated, and we should repeat the same descriptor over and over again to keep our readers bored. OK, so it’s poor form, but the word frantic is the word I find stuck in the mesh of my cranial colander when I sift my thoughts to remove unhelpful garbage.

I didn’t visit my parents after any of their previous procedures, not because I think this surgery is riskier than the others, but because I did not previously have the ability to slow my mind and make decisions based on long-term priorities. Like my eventual death-bed priorities.

My mom doesn’t think she’s dying, but I have news for her. We’re all dying. So maybe we are all on our figurative death beds. The death bed seems like a silly place to be frantic. I still need to work on being less frantic when I’m sleeping. I’m not sure what my subconscious flailing is all about, but I do receive feedback. My wife often asks me if I wrestled an alligator in my dreams. She tries to manage her frustration with her disheveled bed partner, but I know she’s sleeping diagonally in our bed while I am on the other side of the country–sleeping with a peaceful grin under neatly tucked covers.

I’ve got a lot of spunk for a guy on his death bed.

Aren’t I precious?

If you are ready to learn how alcohol, and a lack of emotional safety, have impacted you, as the drinker or the partner, both individually and in your close relationships, please take our brief survey to begin the exploration process. We hope you can learn from the lived-experience experts in Echoes of Recovery or SHOUT Sobriety.

Survey