Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
When Time Grows Precious
A terminal diagnosis has a strange way of shifting your perception of time. It no longer feels abstract or abundant but becomes a delicate currency, something to be spent with deliberate care. In this altered reality, every conversation and interaction carries more weight. I’ve found myself reassessing who I spend time with—not from resentment or selfishness, but from a quiet understanding that my time is no longer open-ended.
This shift in priorities hasn’t gone unnoticed. Some interpret my decisions as cold or dismissive. Others offer unsolicited judgments. That hurts. What’s often misunderstood is that these choices come from a place of clarity, not cruelty—from a desire to spend my remaining time meaningfully, not performatively.
One of the most unexpected consequences of receiving a terminal diagnosis is the sudden reappearance of people from the past. Faces I hadn’t seen or heard from in years are now at my doorstep, in my inbox, or on the end of a tentative phone call. Some arrive with good intentions. Others seem unsure why they’re here. All carry something unresolved.
It would be easy to dismiss these encounters with cynicism—to view them as guilt offerings or panic-driven gestures. And yes, guilt often plays a part. I see it in their eyes. They remember a kindness I once offered or a conversation we never finished. My illness brings that memory into sharp focus, and they reach out, perhaps to ease their conscience more than to comfort me.
Fear plays its role, too. Illness is a powerful mirror. For those who have drifted away, my situation becomes a reminder of their own mortality, a push to tie up loose ends. Some want closure. Others want a more graceful goodbye than the silence they left behind. I understand that impulse, even if it sometimes feels like a transaction.
Then there are the unspoken rules—the social cues that say you must call, must send flowers, must offer a visit. These gestures often come with kindness, but not always with connection. They follow a script, a way of saying “I did my part.” I’ve appreciated them, truly, but they don’t always land where they were intended.
Still, I’ve learned not to judge too quickly. Guilt, fear, obligation—these are not flaws so much as evidence of our humanness. We’re all fumbling our way through relationships, trying to get it right while living with what we got wrong.
What matters now, more than motivation, is presence. Are you here with me, now, honestly? Or just passing through to check a box on your inner list of regrets?
As for me, I’ve chosen to invest in the relationships that feel mutual and real. Time, for me, is no longer a renewable resource. So I offer it where it can be received, where both hearts are present and open.
This doesn’t mean I’ve closed the door to everyone else. It just means I’ve chosen to keep it open only to those who walk in with sincerity and stay awhile—not out of habit or duty, but because they truly want to be there.
If there’s one thing I’ve come to believe deeply, it’s this: We all need to be thoughtful about how we spend our time and with whom. For those facing a terminal illness, that choice becomes sharper, but the principle applies to everyone. Life is short even when it’s long.
And for those who feel moved to reconnect, I would simply ask this—don’t come out of guilt, or to ease discomfort. Come because you want to. Because you care. Because you’re ready to listen, to share, and to be fully here.
Relationships, like time, are fragile. But in their fragility lies their beauty. When they’re honest, when they’re generous, when they’re free of pretence—they carry us, even through the hardest days.
When Time Grows Precious
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
When Time Grows Precious
A terminal diagnosis has a strange way of shifting your perception of time. It no longer feels abstract or abundant but becomes a delicate currency, something to be spent with deliberate care. In this altered reality, every conversation and interaction carries more weight. I’ve found myself reassessing who I spend time with—not from resentment or selfishness, but from a quiet understanding that my time is no longer open-ended.
This shift in priorities hasn’t gone unnoticed. Some interpret my decisions as cold or dismissive. Others offer unsolicited judgments. That hurts. What’s often misunderstood is that these choices come from a place of clarity, not cruelty—from a desire to spend my remaining time meaningfully, not performatively.
One of the most unexpected consequences of receiving a terminal diagnosis is the sudden reappearance of people from the past. Faces I hadn’t seen or heard from in years are now at my doorstep, in my inbox, or on the end of a tentative phone call. Some arrive with good intentions. Others seem unsure why they’re here. All carry something unresolved.
It would be easy to dismiss these encounters with cynicism—to view them as guilt offerings or panic-driven gestures. And yes, guilt often plays a part. I see it in their eyes. They remember a kindness I once offered or a conversation we never finished. My illness brings that memory into sharp focus, and they reach out, perhaps to ease their conscience more than to comfort me.
Fear plays its role, too. Illness is a powerful mirror. For those who have drifted away, my situation becomes a reminder of their own mortality, a push to tie up loose ends. Some want closure. Others want a more graceful goodbye than the silence they left behind. I understand that impulse, even if it sometimes feels like a transaction.
Then there are the unspoken rules—the social cues that say you must call, must send flowers, must offer a visit. These gestures often come with kindness, but not always with connection. They follow a script, a way of saying “I did my part.” I’ve appreciated them, truly, but they don’t always land where they were intended.
Still, I’ve learned not to judge too quickly. Guilt, fear, obligation—these are not flaws so much as evidence of our humanness. We’re all fumbling our way through relationships, trying to get it right while living with what we got wrong.
What matters now, more than motivation, is presence. Are you here with me, now, honestly? Or just passing through to check a box on your inner list of regrets?
As for me, I’ve chosen to invest in the relationships that feel mutual and real. Time, for me, is no longer a renewable resource. So I offer it where it can be received, where both hearts are present and open.
This doesn’t mean I’ve closed the door to everyone else. It just means I’ve chosen to keep it open only to those who walk in with sincerity and stay awhile—not out of habit or duty, but because they truly want to be there.
If there’s one thing I’ve come to believe deeply, it’s this: We all need to be thoughtful about how we spend our time and with whom. For those facing a terminal illness, that choice becomes sharper, but the principle applies to everyone. Life is short even when it’s long.
And for those who feel moved to reconnect, I would simply ask this—don’t come out of guilt, or to ease discomfort. Come because you want to. Because you care. Because you’re ready to listen, to share, and to be fully here.
Relationships, like time, are fragile. But in their fragility lies their beauty. When they’re honest, when they’re generous, when they’re free of pretence—they carry us, even through the hardest days.