Imagine if you were given one of those yellow note pads. Each yellow page represented a day to your given life span.
Then each morning you wake up and the first thing you do is tear a sheet off, which represents you taking one step closer to the end - your death.
Imagine the day you notice how thin the note pad has become....would you...panic?
..live your days differently?
Would you be doing what you're doing right at this moment?
Would you go different places?
Would you create more experiences?
See the world?
Work less or more?
Do more of what you really love?
Spend more time with certain people and less time doing _______?
Have different beliefs?
Take more risk?
Worry less about trivial matters?
Would you simply just live each day doing what you absolutely love? Doing what makes you feel completely charged and fulfilled within?
I try to remind myself of this daily...
We are only here for a few short years and the reality is that every single hour, every single day, it's like tearing a sheet off from our note pad of life.
But we all too often live today on the guarantee of tomorrow, with no real sense of urgency.
There's no "right time" to start doing what makes you feel that charge within, other than right Now.
We have no idea when that last 'sheet' will be torn off...
What if we did knew the day it would all end?
Would you consider it a blessing or a curse?
Hold onto that thought for a moment…
September 20th, 2016 (exactly one year ago from the day I find myself writing this) my Dad peeled his last sheet from his life pad.
Just 2.5 short years prior my Dad was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a cancer of the blood. It is a “treatable” but an un-curable cancer. This cancer slowly eats away at your bones, literally.
Significant and frequent bone pain is associated with this and my Dad was no exception to the norm.
For 2.5 years I watched my Dad’s physical health deteriorate before my eyes. What was once a “beast of a man” in my eyes, had become physically weak and vulnerable.
My father had two distinct passions, farming and riding his Harley.
I created this picture to capture the pride my Dad and Grandpa John Larson had for the farm. One day I may find my way into this portrait.
He devoted his life to farming and with his spare time he spent much of it between the rumbling motor of his Harley. It’s a passion that we would share together and many of his friends would do the same.
I took this photo to capture my Dad's two passions in life. Farming and riding Harley.
My Dad and I rode our bikes (Harley) from Wisconsin to the Rocky Mountains 12 years in a row. It was a father-son thing. Something that we both got excited about every summer.
That 12 year steak was broken the year he was diagnosed.
His cancer began to slowly strip away his two passions in life. I always viewed my Dad as one of the toughest SOB’s both physically and mentally that I ever met. And he was. He was truly that old-school hard headed and tough “Farmer.”
This toughness shined through multiple times during those 2.5 years while he battled the cancer.
I can’t even count the amount of times this cancer would bring him to the brink of the end, and then he’d persevere and make his comeback.
The cancer would knock him down to the point where he physically could not walk. He would profusely bleed through his nose, look completely disoriented, and unable to care for himself.
We even had to call an ambulance to the farm to pick him up on a stretcher and bring him to the hospital.
I will be 100% honest, I thought that would be the last time my Dad would be on the farm he spent his entire life tending to, building, and cherishing.
It wasn’t. He would fight another year. Cancer would punch him in the face and he somehow would generate enough mental and physical strength to punch it straight back in the fucking face.
It’s as if both the cancer and my Dad were sharing knock out punches for the entire 2.5 years.
And one of the hardest parts is being in the corner watching, witnessing the knockouts….Seeing the physical pain in his eyes......the mental anguish that would proceed every knockout.
I found myself trying to be that coach in his corner. Giving recommendations, strategies, suggestions, and trying to show no fear, because you don’t want the fighter to realize his fate.
Although, deep down you know the outcome. But you’re in denial. I was in denial.
I was hard on my Dad, because I didn’t want to believe the outcome, just as I didn’t want him to believe the outcome.
So I would see my Dad get knocked out, and I’d say “Now Dad, you can’t do ______. You have to think about ______. You need to do ______!”
I was pissed. I was pissed that my Dad was losing. He was a man that I thought was unbeatable. He was the American Badass, in my eyes.
I took this picture on a trip out west to Colorado, which would be our last.
My Dad would somehow get back up and lay another knockout!
Then, down goes my Dad. Bloodied mentally and physically.
Now that it’s all over and I look back, I still see that American Badass. The tough SOB that he truly was. Just the fact that he mentally could get up from so many knockouts is remarkable in my eyes.
He could have stayed down many times and just let it come to an end. But he didn’t. It reminds me of this fact, "Only the man in the fight knows how much battle he has within him."
My Dad had a shit ton. And I’m proud as hell of him because of that.
He fought to the absolute end and I’ll share that story with you, because it’s a representation of my Dad’s toughness, his fight, his battle within.
I was living in Denver. I visited my Dad on the farm just a couple weeks earlier. He was doing “ok” but many of his treatment options seemed to be gone. The doctors literally said, “We are running out of options.”
…..we had experienced so many knockouts but every time he’d make a return…but something felt different about this one. I don’t know why, but I just felt something in my gut and I knew it when I was packing to make the flight back to the hospital in Wisconsin.
While I was backing, a voice inside told me to pack my suit. A suit that you’d wear to a funeral.
I boarded a 6am flight to Minneapolis. I can't begin to tell you the thoughts that were going through my head during the 2 hour flight and 1 hour drive to the hospital. The best word would be, hopeless.
You feel as everything has been done and nothing can be undone. It's as if you're heading to a flight where you know this knockout will be the final of all the knockouts.
I will never forget the moment when I walked into his hospital room, the last moment that I would get to look my Dad straight in the eyes.
He had 20 or more friends gathered around him. A massive mask over his face and his breathing was extremely labored. His eyes, closed.
As I walked into his room someone said, “Brian’s here now.”
He turned his head, opened his eyes, and looked me straight in the eyes.
It was the look of a final knockout.
He would never open his eyes after that.
A few hours after, we were told that if he took off that ventilating mask that he would make it much longer and certainly not through the night.
The decision was made to take the mask off because there was nothing else to be done.
My Dad would continue to breath, on his own, not only through the entire night but into the following day – September 20th 2016.
It was as if he still wasn’t willing to admit defeat.
He wasn’t ready to leave.
Like he was still worried about something.
Maybe the farm? We had over 1,000 acres of crops to be harvested.
Maybe it was my mother?
It was late afternoon and just the immediate family and a couple friends sat around my Dad at this time.
I kept feeling this overwhelming urge to talk to him and a massive pit within my stomach. It was a deep urge to be alone with my Dad and talk to him. To tell him how I truly felt about him, even though he was not “conscious.”
I asked everyone if they could leave us alone for a moment. The moment they all left and shut the door I broke down.
I grabbed his hand, leaned over him and told him how much I deeply loved him. I told him how fucking tough I thought he was. How he was the toughest man I ever knew. How all I could hope for was to be the half the man he was. To be as tough as him. That I was sorry for being so hard on him during his fight. That I could finally see how much he was truly fighting for his life.
And then I said, “You don’t have to worry anymore Dad, I’ll take care of your crops and Mom will be ok. I will look after her.”
Just as I finished those words, his breathing started to sound relaxed and it began to slow. Long and slow, then short and slow.
Then, in just a few seconds, he let go and passed on.
My crying immediately stopped. I can’t even begin to express the real feeling I had in that moment.
It was a calming, peaceful feeling. I didn’t panic. I wasn’t frightened. I wasn’t sad.
How it happened seemed to radiate this peace and belief over me. It made me feel as if he was there, watching, and waiting for those words before he could feel content to let go and move on.
It made me feel as if he would always be there, with us. Watching. Waiting…..
So even though my Dad will never see me get married, I know he is there.
Even though my Dad will never get to play with my kids, I know he is there.
Even though he doesn't get to farm next to me or watch me possibly take over the farm, I know he is there.
Even though I ride alone much of the time now, I know he is there.
.....It has been a year since that final moment.
What have I learned since?
I’ll be the first to say it hasn’t been the easiest. I seem to let out my grieving in ways that I don’t even notice at times. I get angry. I get irritated. I get distant. I look to escape.
But most of all, it has become more and more real with each day.
I’ve broken down more in the last 4 months then I did the entire first 6 months because it seems so final now. I realize he's never coming back.
I would give anything to talk with him, one last time. To take one last ride. To ask him one last question. To hear him yell at me, one last time. The realization that it won't happen seems to hurt a little more each day.
The emotion comes in waves. It’s not every day.
Certain things will trigger it. Certain songs. Certain sounds. Certain thoughts. Certain pictures. Certain sights. Seeing some of his certain friends. Certain dates.
You never know when it will come, but you know that it will.
But what have I REALLY learned?
If you’ve ever read my stuff you know that I write about life lessons. I always try and look for the lessons that live within any and all life events.
I feel the bigger the “event” the greater the lesson that lives within.
And this was the biggest one of my life, to date.
Here are the Top 5 Life Lessons that I learned from the death of my Dad to cancer.
1. Stop looking at your phone when you’re with loved ones and Family.
We live in a society of distractions and nothing seems to steal more of our attention and focus then our phones.
We may think we are, “Just responding to someones text message. Or looking something up quickly.” But anytime we are, chin down, in our phone no matter how insignificant we feel it is, we are stealing moments of true connection with our loved ones.
Every time we use our phones in the presence of loved ones during times of conversation, dinner, or visiting we are overtly saying, “Connecting with people on Facebook, Instagram, my contacts, my co-workers, people in my inbox…is more important then allowing a connection to happen with you.”
We need to start connecting, IN PERSON, with the people right in front of us versus being so damn concerned with connecting virtually, making a post, ‘liking’ shit, capturing video or a pic only to care about sharing it with people online versus ACTUALLY taking in the moment with those right around us.
I have learned to be more conscious when I am using my phone and when I am allowing my phone and social media to steal my attention away from those who matter the most to me.
Because that one moment we chose to give to our phone versus being truly present with our loved ones could very well be the last chance to create a memory. What is more important….catching up on the Facebook, SnapChat and Instagram news feed and videos?
And for that, cancer’s blessing has been the realization that I better soak up every moment possible with those I love. To put the phone down so I can allow a real connection to happen with those around me.
2. Stop waiting
We all know it, but do we really know and understand it? Our time is finite and only temporary. Any day we could pull that last sheet from our life pad. If you pulled yours tomorrow what would you regret the most? What experiences do you wish you would have went for? What risks do would you wish you would have made?
Would you wish you would have asked her to marry you? Would you have let go of past hurt so you could experience love again?
Would you have quit that soul sucking job and pursue something that actually made you feel alive?
Would you start something that makes you feel like you’re making a difference?
Would you have stopped being fearful of commitment, married her/him and have kids so you can experience the wonder of family and raising kids? Versus waiting, waiting, and waiting for the “perfect time.” If your last sheet is pulled in the next 9 months, you’ll never have that incredible life experienced (myself included).
I have learned to stop waiting! Why? What in the hell am I waiting for? My time is temporary. When I’m on my death bed I know that I will only look back and regret the things I NEVER did. Not the things I tried and failed at. I will regret the memories I never made, the life experiences that I never had.
And for me those are: getting married, having kids, creating an awesome and extremely close family, and starting a business that makes a difference in the lives and health of others.
What have you been waiting to do? There’s something and you know it.
My god, just do it already. You ARE going to die! What is there really to be scared about? You’re going to DIE! You will not have a replay button to push.
Let’s start doing and stop waiting. There’s too much to gain, and really nothing to lose.
And for that, cancers blessing has been the realization in the mortality of life and all of us.
3. Collect as many memories with those you love as humanly possible.
How many times have you turned down an opportunity for a good adventure because you felt you “had to ______.”
The year before my Dad was diagnosis I remember struggling with deciding if I should go on a 2 week Harley trip with him to the Pacific Ocean and back. I had a personal training business and felt that I couldn’t take that much time off. I had to make money. It was irresponsible to go. I had goals and needed to “hustle.”
Here we were when we made it from Wisconsin to the coast of Oregon on our Harleys. The trip I almost skipped.
I’ll just leave it here. Do you think I regret going? Do you think I now regret not making extra money? Hell, no!
When you have a chance to do something cool, a chance to adventure, a chance to make a lasting memory, a chance to connect on a deeper level with someone…..GO!
When we leave, we are not taking our debt, our money or our jobs with us.
GO!
And for that, cancers blessing has been the realization that life is about doing cool shit with people we love. To be intentional about making memories. To get out there, go on adventures, let your worries drift and take life’s wonders in. The emails. The job. The money….they will always be there and they can wait for now.
4. Never take your physical health for granted and USE IT while you have it!
My profession is in nutrition, fitness and performance. I’ve always cared about my health. But I’ve never realized the delicacy of it until I saw my Dad’s physical health unintentionally stripped from him.
If you are overweight and unhealthy it is your duty to get healthy. You are missing out on life.
If you have your health. Use it! Run, sprint, lift, hike, climb, compete, play with your kids, bike, swim, play sports, take on a physical challenge, build something….and do it MORE.
Stop taking it for granted and as something that you will have for your entire life. One day we could wake up, against our will, and never have to ability to enjoy our health and fitness again.
Show the universe, or your God how grateful you are for your health….and the only way to do this is to USE IT.
And for that, cancers blessing has been the realization that if I’m fit and healthly start using it more! It’s a gift and never disrespect this gift by neglecting my body with shitting nutrition, and laziness.
5. Make a difference. Leave something worth remembering. Leave an impact on those around you. What do I want to be remembered for?
I’ve come to realize that we all just want our lives to have mattered. We want to know that there was a purpose to our life.
How do we do this?
By giving. By creating. And in doing so, through our creating and giving we will have made a difference in the lives of others.
If you were to die tomorrow, how many people would show up at your funeral? How many people would volunteer to speak about the impact of your life?
I think the honest answers to this question can tell us a lot about how we are currently living our lives.
Are we taking or giving?
Are we creating or working on something worth remembering?
As I stood there for hours and hours, greeting people from a line that went outside the funeral home, I knew that my Dad had made a difference. He touched peoples lives in some way. Whether that was through a word, a conversation, a Harley ride, his work ethic, his toughness, his bull-headedness, his assurance, his farming, his opinions…..whatever it was, he left his mark.
My Dad and one of his long time great friends. Sharing his passion, riding Harley.
And for that, cancers blessing has been the realization that life is about giving. It’s about making a difference in the lives of others and creating something worth remembering and leaving the world just a little bit better than you found it.
Those are my Top 5 lessons from my dad’s death and his fight with cancer.
It has been one of the most challenging years of my life. I am reminded that just 6 years ago I was going through (at that time) the hardest time of my life. I felt sadness, I felt a lack of hope, I was confused, I was angry….
...but that darkness became the greatest turning point of my life.
I can’t help but think that this will be another turning point in my life, if I choose to implement the life lessons that I have discovered. We all face hardship and darkness in our lives. None of us are unique in that regards. What is unique is how each person decides to respond.
Will we fester in our sorrows, the pain and anger or will we choose to become aware of the lessons that live within the darkness, the pain and anger and choose to rise above.
Will we make this a defining moment in our life?
Will we use it as an awakening?
Will we wake up and start to truly LIVE?
Will we choose to wake up, risk more, love more, do more, play more, laugh more, create more, and experience more?
Or will we choose to remain bound to the shackles and life sucking habits of worry, anger, fear, greed, victimhood, ungratefulness, and cowardness?
The choice is ours.
We shall choose wisely.
Because our life pads are thinning with each day, each hour, each minute.
The last ride that my Dad and I would share together. August 2016.
This article is dedicated to my Dad and to all of the sons out there who have lost a father.
I feel it's safe to say they were the toughest men we know, they were our Hero's then and they still are today.
Lets carry on the Legacy!
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Brian Larson
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Brian Larson Mindset, Nutrition & Performance Expert B.S. Human Performance; Psychology Creator, The UltimateYou Method