August 19. I was walking down the concrete path connecting the main building to the additional teaching buildings. My first meeting with 40 energetic, youthful minds. My introductory class always filled my mind with apprehensive questions on the first encounter: how many names will I butcher, will they like me, will they remain open-minded, will they accept a 3 hour lecture, and, perhaps the most daunting....will they give biology a chance.
August 19. These questions were never answered. I reached for my phone after the fifth consecutive call and answered. At the age of 59, he was dead. Massive heart attack in the cafeteria at work. Warning signs were ignored. And now he was gone. Forever. There was no undo button.
Life. Life is so precious. The majority of my studying/teaching has involved the study of life. I know all too well how precious these chemical reactions are to the maintenance of cellular growth and function. Just one minor change, say an amino acid substitution, and your blood cells transform into a sickle shape when stressed. Or a missed checkpoint during cellular reproduction, leading to the most sinister of all evil: cancer. If you really stop and think about how, on a minute by minute timeframe, precarious your body maintenance is then you may begin to look at life through a different pair of shades.
Yolo shades. I bought a pair of these after his passing. You only live once. That's why I'm here in Utah guiding on the Green. That's also why my heart melts for those that have survived the battle with time: the elderly. Worn soft by the constant barrage of pressures associated with "living". They carry that burden of survival on their backs. For some, it's heavy enough that they remain hunched over indefinitely. Their eyes, however, still convey their youthful appearance.
I melt. My heart melts. Recently, for 10 hours in the cold rain my heart melted. My boat was filled with gear much older than myself. I had front row seats each time the indicator would move without a quick set. He understood. His synapses, slowed with time, are fusing out like spark plugs, reducing his reaction time. His rod tip continuously shook side to side without his permission. Hooked fish almost sent him to his backing regardless of size. Very few fish actually made it to the boat. A few hours after lunch he began to conversate alone, in the back of the boat. He was unaware that his voice carried as far as my ears over the rushing water.
"Why am I doing this?"
"I give up."
"I can't do this anymore."
My heart melted. I pulled over. I turned to him and told him everything is okay. You're here on the beautiful Green celebrating yet another year of existence. You are floating on a boat with two beautiful women (one being his longtime, very devoted wife). It's okay. Let's keep fishing!
To this he responded with silence and a reserve as though he realized this could be his last trip on the Green. He took his rod and continued to cast away. I wanted to comfort him. Tell him that it was a miracle that he has had the opportunity to enjoy life for this amount of time. My father had not been so fortunate. I wanted him to smile and enjoy the current moment. He was alive, fishing on the Green. Instead, I continued to row.
We reached a pod of fish violently eating just below the water surface in calm water. He threw a cast that drifted right into the pod. Miss! He did it again...miss! By the third cast he was dancing with a fish. Time stopped. In this brief moment, age was non-existent. Laughter coupled with high-fives and hugs filled the boat. The climatic moment occurred when he and his wife simultaneously hooked and landed a fish: a double.
I didn't want to leave. Neither did he. I could see it in his eyes. We wanted to stay in that moment forever. As darkness set in, however, we headed to the takeout. My heart forever melted.
