Living with joy, preparing for goodbye, and leaving a little less mess behind.
I was watching The Resident the other night, a show that usually lands somewhere between medical drama and life philosophy in scrubs. One scene hit harder than I expected: a man, recently diagnosed with cancer, decides not to pursue chemo. His reasons are simple and profound—he wants to enjoy the time he has left, and he doesn’t want to leave the garage for his wife to clean up.
His wife objects at first—of course she does. But then, with a quiet nod to both love and inevitability, she agrees. “That garage won’t clean itself,” she says.
And just like that, a fictional garage punched me in the gut.
Because, well… I’ve got one too.
A real one. And a metaphorical one.
And both are kind of a disaster.
Let’s start with the real one. It’s full of tools I haven’t used since the Bush administration, a collection of extension cords I’m emotionally attached to, and more “I’ll get to that someday” projects than I care to admit.
But the bigger mess? That’s the one I’ve been thinking about more lately. The half-finished novels, the old notebooks, the unspoken thank-yous, and the drawer full of paperwork I’ve promised my wife I’d “sort through next week” for about ten years now.
And here’s the truth: I don’t know how much time I’ve got left to clean it.
You see, I’m 69 years old. I’ve got myasthenia gravis, heart failure, angioedema, and a long list of other issues—side effects, souvenirs, maybe—from the Gulf War and a lifetime of exposure to things no one should’ve had to breathe in or carry forward.
I’m not writing this from a place of “someday I’ll die.” I’m writing this from a place of knowing that day’s a lot closer than it used to be. But I’m also not writing it from a place of defeat.
Here’s the part I haven’t said yet: I’m 69. I’ve got myasthenia gravis, heart failure, angioedema, and more Gulf War-related baggage than the Pentagon wants to admit. And while I’m not dead yet (don’t start the party), I’ve got a pretty good sense that I’m playing somewhere in the later innings of this ballgame.
But I’m still here. Still kicking. Still cracking jokes. Still soaking up time with my wife of 45 years (who, by the way, deserves sainthood and maybe hazard pay), my kids, and my two perfect grandkids.
Still dreaming of one last big trip, one more good story, one more project that might actually get finished.
Still alive enough to eat too many snacks, write too many words, and tell the same story three times because I forgot I already told it.
And here’s the thing—my wife doesn’t deserve to be left with a garage full of mystery tools, unlabeled wires, and a folder called “Important Stuff Probably” on my desktop. She deserves better. Honestly, she always has.
So I’m trying.
Trying to clean up—literally and figuratively.
Trying to finish the things I said I’d finish.
Trying to hand over a life that’s less messy, more meaningful, and maybe even a little easier to carry.
I won’t get it all done. I’m not delusional. (Okay, maybe a little.)
But if I can leave behind a few finished pages, a clean-ish workbench, and some laughter instead of loose ends, that feels like a win.
That garage won’t clean itself.
But I’ll do what I can—with a little heart, a lot of humor, and as much joy as I can squeeze into the time I’ve got left.
And when it’s all said and done?
I hope the last thing people remember isn’t the mess I left, but the joy I tried to live.
Choose Joy.
Always.
