I Can’t Go On, I’ll Go On

We don’t fully know nor understand something until we experience it for ourselves.

Not death; not heartbreak; not terminal diseases…not even something extremely anticlimactic like failing a class or hitting way below average on an exam score.

As John Keats once wrote “Nothing ever becomes real ’til it is experienced.” 

But as I’m sitting here in the car…watching the clouds sit peacefully in the sky, the words keep coming to me.

“I can’t go on. I’ll go on.”

Those words have been echoing in my head since I read them.

I can’t.

But I will.

Because I must.

Even though I may not be terminally ill, as my health seems to be thriving at the moment, this goes with every painful experience we face. To the terminally ill, to the depressed, to the anxiety, to the heartbreaks…we will go on. You will continue live.

As John 1:5 says, “the light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.” 

After reading When Breath Becomes Air, I decided to skim through Ecclesiastes again. Let me tell you, Solomon is one depressing guy.

“I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind.” – Ecclesiastes 1:14

Wisdom, pleasure, riches, folly, toil, and so forth are all meaningless. Solomon points us to find God-conscious joy (for more clarity I encourage you to read this article here),

When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi is a beautiful and simplistic read full of raw truth.

Death is a final outcome of everything we accomplish in life. We don’t think about that though… as Paul Kalanithi said most of us live with a passivity toward it. A a neurosurgeon he actively engaged in it, consoling his patients into acceptance and rationality, but until he became a patient himself, he did not fully understand the pain in which suffering entails. He talks of his stages of grief in reverse, how he started from acceptance and moved to denial. Uncertain of how much time he had left; trying to grasp for the numbers. If he knew how much time, he would do things differently.

But as I sat in the car this afternoon, I thought of myself dying in a car crash that very second. Knowing that there is always a possible outcome of death, terminally ill or not, will I choose to live differently?

Even though Paul knew death was his fate, he refused to act as if he were dying. To choose to live and face the outcome we are all surely are going to face, that is a strength we will not know unless we experience it ourselves. As he said, even if he was dying, until he was dead, he still was living.

As Tim McGraw sings “lets live like we are dying..” why not live like we are living?

Having worked in the medical field myself for four years, I understood a sense of what Paul’s run in with terminal patients felt like. I understood the desensitized feelings. When his young doctor came in to check on him and was checking off the boxes. How many times did I do that when taking care of a patient? Many. Countless. So I could get onto the next one and clock out.

Human sympathy is a strange thing, the more it is pushed, the more apathetic we become, until we feel nothing at all.

Paul’s measure of what makes life worth living  is something to learn from. Even though his manuscript went unfinished, his final written words to his daughter are this:

“When you come to one of the many moments in life when you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more, but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing.”