Image from Mr. Theklan

There are few moments in life that make time stand still. Some days we find ourselves engaging in small talk with co-workers about how quickly the year has passed, or when speaking to old college friends, we reminisce about the “glory days” as though they were yesterday. During casual conversation, we typically refer to time as relative, yet when a tragedy hits close to home, time suddenly becomes something tangible, like a loudly ticking clock we can’t turn off.

It’s been two years since my Dad was diagnosed with cancer. I remember the night my parents told me about the diagnosis; it was the first time I can recall seeing tears welled up in my father’s eyes. Time stood still and I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I was sitting in the first car of a backwards upside-down rollercoaster as it barreled through a dark tunnel. My sense of time had been heightened by this deadly external force, like a gravitational pull weighing on my heart and mind. How much time was left? How was I supposed to wrap my head around all of the years prior to the diagnosis? And most importantly, how could I make the most of time with my father while unsure of the outcome?

How we respond to life’s tests is a reflection of our character. We like to think of our technological savvy as a way we can deepen relationships with a simple phone call, e-mail, or text message. But when our sense of time is forced into question, no mobile message can replace what it means to be human: to feel connected to someone through sight, smell, hearing, and touch. A memory is not made in 140 characters or less; it is made with a handshake, a hug, a smile, a kiss.

While my father was undergoing radiation therapy, I saw the man I grew up viewing as my own source of strength – my academic mentor and my best editor, in addition to parent – as a more vulnerable version of himself due to the question marks surrounding his health. As a result of this situation, I said the things that I always wanted to say but never did. I gave the hugs that I never got around to giving. I looked at the time spent with my family and loved ones as something that is not guaranteed.

My Dad was diagnosed cancer-free six months after treatment. This family tragedy and ultimately, a life lesson in love, taught me to be even more thankful during times of celebration. I’ve seen friends walk down the aisle in holy matrimony; I’ve seen new babies, graduations, and careers take off in different directions. For every tragedy, there’s a celebration, and a chance to reflect about the time we have and how we make the most of those moments right now.

I remember an anonymous quote that resonated with me. It said, “Your longest day is only 24 hours.” While our time here on earth is uncertain, each breath we take is the one thing we can be sure of.  Remember to reach out and stay connected to those in your life in a more tangible way, as these are the people who have helped you define your experience and what it truly means to feel alive.