December 26, 2022 was the day our lives changed. Two days before, our son Nick flew home for Christmas. David, my husband, picked him up from the airport and took him to breakfast. Sitting at a table by the window, Nick said, “Dad, why do you look yellow?” 

I hadn’t seen the jaundice that was setting in. The doctors later told me the changes are subtle. When you’re with someone every day, you may not notice them. Nick spotted it right away and so did my sister when we got together for Christmas. 

After consulting Google, we surmised that he had gallstones. Our primary care physician’s office was closed on the day after Christmas, and he told us to go to the ER. So, we did. Six hours later, we found out that David had a tumor at the head of his pancreas that was pinching off his bile duct. It was cancer, and it had spread to his liver. 

What followed was a blur.

I’m the kind of person who reads a few chapters of a mystery thriller, skips to the back of the book to find out whodunit, and slaps the book closed satisfied with my reclaimed time. I know it’s wrong—especially since I’m a writer—but I do it anyway. 

After David’s diagnosis, I want so badly to skip ahead and find out what was going to happen. Of course, I couldn’t. I had to let each paragraph and each chapter play out in real time. It’s a good thing I didn’t know. After a series of celebrations and setbacks, David passed away. I thought we had at least a year and likely more, but he died just four short months after the diagnosis.

“Wow” is an understatement. I wanted more wow moments in my life, but clearly not like this. David was vibrant and healthy. He had retired early, our boys were grown and launched into the world, and we had plans to travel. In many ways, our life was beginning again. 

“David, what do I do now?” I said aloud in a moment of despair. He gave me an answer right away. When I got in the car and turned on the radio a few minutes later, I heard Tim McGraw’s song, “Live Like You Were Dying.” I won’t lie. I sat in my garage and cried. 

Later, I told my sister what happened. She said, “You know, David died like he was living.”

She was right. Never for one second did he let the bad prognosis change his outlook, his plans, or his will to live. Outwardly, he never showed fear, remorse, or sadness about what may lie ahead. He died like he was living.

I decided to see what would happen if I started to live like I was dying.