we remember our days are numbered? Sometimes it takes great loss to remind us of what we have. That loss also makes room for us to see more things that matter, like puddles. Anne Marie helped me see this, because although she prioritized the beauty of puddles, she still participates in life’s regularly scheduled programming—but she’s now doing it wearing a new set of glasses, finding beauty in all the small things while still getting the biggest things done. She doesn’t allow self-pity to prevent her from being in the game.
I don’t know what it feels like to have such a deadly disease. I’ve never had to take cocktails of medications just to get out of bed, and I haven’t lost my beard[1] to chemotherapy. Those experiences sound very difficult, and I wouldn’t dare disrespect these thrivers by even trying to imagine how it feels.
But you don’t have to get cancer to be a thriver; you can thrive right now. None of us is going to make it out alive, and remembering that helps to put things into perspective.
Cancer forced Anne Marie to remember she was going to die and inspired her to notice something as simple as the beautiful reflections in a puddle, which in turn reminds her that she’s still alive. If we all remember our mortality, we’ll find more in life to celebrate, and the things that cause us the most stress may lose a bit of strength.
A friend once said to me, “Our problems are only real because we forget we’re going to die.” I’m not going to ask you to be dramatic and assume that today is the last day of your life, so you can figure out what’s really important. We don’t need to stare death in the eyes to realize that. We just have to sit down for twenty minutes with a pen and pad and make a list of what’s important to us.
Sometimes when things feel too heavy, I ask myself, “Will this matter in three hundred years?” and I think about the fact that no one I know will be around then—none of their judgments, opinions, debts, or grudges—and that I should enjoy this journey while I’m still healthy enough to do so. In three hundred years it won’t matter that I wasn’t invited to this or that event or included on this or that list or was able to connect with this or that person. It won’t matter that I showed up wearing a mustard stain on my outfit or that I didn’t proofread my text message before I hit “send.” Figuring out what will matter in three hundred years results in a much shorter list—almost next to nothing.
It’s great to have ambitions for the future, but let’s add some short-term and immediate things to look forward to as well so we’re not deferring our entire life to “someday.” Let’s enjoy the puddles, our loved ones, and all the roses we’d like to smell. Anne Marie didn’t quit her day job and become a nihilist; she embraced life even more and dedicated more time to helping others do the same. She didn’t find a silver lining in her diagnosis; she discovered a puddle—and created one from it: after she was in remission, she founded TheseAreMyScars.com to share her cancer experiences to inspire and educate others.
I’m not going to pretend that staring at a puddle on the street engulfed forever me in a Zen state. I still stress over petty and impermanent things. But I have received renewed inspiration to take more control when those stresses become too much, and instead of drowning myself in a bottle, or pills, or another person, I dive into a puddle, and things feel a little better. A little better is a step up from a little worse, and those baby steps can add up, so splash your feet.
In the ninth grade, I put it out into the universe that I wanted a dog. A week later, I received a call from my uncle.
“Kanwer, I found a puppy for you,” he said.
“What’s the breed?” I asked excitedly. I had been researching different breeds for a while. Fourteen-year-old me was very particular about the type of dog I wanted.
“I don’t know … he’s black. Let me ask.”
I waited until he returned with an answer. “He’s a German Shepherd.”
“Does he come with any shots?”
“He comes with four legs, that’s all I know. Do you want a dog or not?”
“Umm, okay!”
And that’s how we got Himmatt. The owners of a gas station near my uncle’s home had purchased two very expensive German Shepherd show dogs and used them for security. Those guard dogs hooked up, and Himmatt was born in a litter of what I could only imagine were higher functioning puppies. My cousin, who had joined my uncle to visit the litter, explained that while the other dogs were running around play-fighting with each other, Himmatt sat quietly by himself staring at the floor. My uncle figured he’d be the least of a headache and chose him.
I was excited to get a puppy. I imagined him to be a cute and innocent little guy, but Himmatt was none of the above. He was all black with a little brown on his nose, and he was much larger than I expected an eight-week-old puppy to be.
Himmatt is a Punjabi word that loosely translates to courage and strength. He was goofy-looking and had oversized paws that he’d trip over as he walked. His ears drooped and never pointed in the same direction. When we were out on a walk together, people would stop their cars to get a closer look and pet him. They’d tell stories of their former dogs as they searched for them in his eyes. At the time I thought these people were weird and creepy, but the more it happened, the more I realized how easily dogs bring smiles into people’s lives.
Himmatt grew to be a large and handsome dog. He grew to 140 pounds and could jump and catch something six feet in the air. His show dog parents passed down show dog genes to him. He was a smart guy and knew enough to know when he didn’t have to listen. He knew who in my family would share dinner scraps with him. He knew the best routes for walks and would ignore anyone who wasn’t going where he wanted to go. He knew when to be nice to little kids and little dogs, and he knew he wasn’t allowed on couches, so he waited until we fell asleep to jump on them.
Himmatt grew up with us and was there for both of my sisters’ weddings. He had friends and enemies in the neighborhood, could sit on the porch without a leash, and was trustworthy enough to even leave the mailman alone.[1]
When he was ten years old, he developed problems in his hips and struggled to walk. We had been warned that this could happen with German Shepherds, but we had hoped we wouldn’t have to face this situation. First, he began to walk on only three legs, leaving one of his hind legs up. Then, the second hind leg started to give out as well, leaving him immobile. He would have accidents in the house, and we watched him deteriorate. German Shepherds have a life expectancy of nine to thirteen years, and, by the time he was eleven, the severity of his hip problems no longer allowed him any independence.
Just as I had researched information before getting a dog, I started researching what signs to look for when it was time to let him go. It’s extremely difficult to make a decision about another being’s life. I read heartbreaking stories from pet owners about their experiences with trying to figure out the “right” time—if that even exists. One person wrote that they asked their dog directly whether it
