My Gap Year

It was my muddy bootprint. I wouldn’t have even seen it if I hadn’t turned around to take a photo…

My father died at age 62. I hadn’t been speaking to him for several years, so I was never too sure about what caused his death. I found out years later from my sister that he had died pretty much instantaneously from a sudden heart attack.

In the back of my mind, the number 62 glowed like a red neon warning sign. I found myself dwelling on that number as I aged, although I told myself I was being ridiculous. I tried to take good care of myself – I worked out, ate healthily, had regular checkups, and did my best not to obsess about that damn 62. My father had always had high cholesterol, so I monitored those numbers closely. I was nonetheless convinced that I had an expiration date looming in the not-that-distant future.

I had decided that I would try my best to retire at 58. At that age, both my sons would have been able to complete four years of college and four years of graduate school (if they decided to go that route). I drew comfort from the notion that I could retire and still have a few years left if I wound up dying at my father’s age.

In 2017, when I was 55, I went in for a routine checkup and my doctor told me that, at my age, I probably should have a cardiac CAT scan done. I had never had a stress test, but my blood pressure was always in the normal range and my cholesterol generally stayed below 200. He gave me a referral to have the test done, but things got busy at work and six months passed. Finally, I found myself with time on my hands, so I went ahead and scheduled it. I was done by around 9:30 a.m

My doctor called me around noon, and I expected to receive a clean bill of health. Instead he told me I had an appointment with a cardiologist that afternoon at which time I’d learn whether I needed an angioplasty or open heart surgery. I asked if he was calling the right patient; I had no symptoms and all my numbers had been normal. That neon 62 moved from the back of my mind to the space right behind my eyes.

When I met with the cardiologist, I asked how I would ever have known about the occlusion of my artery if I hadn’t had the CAT scan. He told me that I probably would have just died. Those words ran on a constant loop in my head – I would have just died. I might not have even made it to 62.

I wound up having an angioplasty and felt fine for about a year. Then I was walking up some stairs and found myself gasping for breath with my head spinning. It turned out that I needed another angioplasty, this time on the so-called “widow maker” artery. If that artery gets blocked, you die. Another unending echo: you die.

I wish I could say that these were life-changing experiences for me. To the contrary, since I had not had any symptoms, I certainly felt relief to have found and corrected the problems, but I didn’t feel like I needed to make major changes in my life. Sure I wanted to carpe all those diems, but I had shit to get done. The dangerous 62 in my head dimmed; I wound up working until I reached that age.

My sister lives in New York, my brother in Sao Paulo, Brazil. Historically, outside of weddings and bar/bat mitzvahs and certain milestone birthdays, we haven’t seen each other all that much, although my brother makes it a point to come back to the U.S. at least once a year. He was in L.A. way more often than I was in Sao Paulo, or New York for that matter. The three of us talked about spending more time together, but it was hard to find a time that was convenient. We all had work, family and other complications.

We got together at my sister’s house in New York shortly after my mother died. She had always stressed the importance of family; I think the three of us each agreed with the sentiment, but, though I can’t speak for my siblings, I definitely took our connection for granted. We got to talking about seeing each other more, and focused on our future ability to travel the distances necessary to do so. It’s about 14 hours from L.A. to Sao Paulo (I think about 9 from New York), and it’s about 5 hours from L.A. to New York. While the three of us have all had our health issues, I think we all considered ourselves fit and capable of travel.

Then we started talking about the future. My sister is a few years older than I am, and my brother is a couple of years younger. Realistically, we gave ourselves another 20 years to be able to make the necessary trips for us to see each other. At that time, on average, we saw each other maybe once a year. At that rate, we were only going to see each other 20 more times in our lives before we would likely no longer be able to physically manage the travel.

That hit the three of us hard. We agreed that we needed to make more of an effort to see each other. Convenience could no longer dictate our decisions. I’m excited that we’ll all be seeing each other in Brazil later this year.

So, about that boot print. When I traveled around the world at age 21, it never occurred to me to think about returning to places I loved. If I had fun, I’d be back. Or not. It didn’t really matter to me.

But that bootprint on the Jock of the Bushveld trail in Graskop, South Africa took me down a different path (no pun intended). I realized that I was likely never going to be back there. I thought about all of the places I’ve been to so far during my gap year, and got overwhelmed by the notion that where I’d been I’d never visit again. There was no future trek to Mount Everest Base Camp, no white water rafting in New Zealand, no zip lining over a gorge in China. Sure, maybe I’d go back to some of the places I’ve visited – I’d certainly like to – but there are so many other places I want to see and things I want to do and, like it or not, my time is limited.

People are always talking about the importance of “being present.” You need to be fully conscious of each moment and free yourself from the noise in your life that complicates that. There’s even an app called BePresent that is designed to help curb screen addiction. I did some research and these are the things I was able to distill about what constitutes being present: no multi-tasking (you need to focus entirely on the thing you are doing); tuning into your immediate physical surroundings (sensory awareness); and making yourself emotional available (sort of single tasking when it comes to interactions with others so you can connect authentically).

Honestly, up to this point in my life, I haven’t done the things required to be genuinely present. I’d like to say that I’ve made the effort to do so, but I can’t even say that with a straight face. Like I said, there was shit to get done.

But that bootprint. The realization that I was never going to be back on that trail in South Africa. I was never again going to make dumplings in a yurt in Mongolia. I probably won’t be back to dive on the Great Barrier Reef (assuming it’s still around to dive on). Maybe this is a morbid way of thinking about things, but if you were told that you were only going to be able to have your favorite ice cream once more in your life, you’d eat it slowly and lick the bowl.

Apparently, they run 5k races regularly on the hiking trail I was on, and about 500 meters from the end of the trail there was a sign that read, “PLEASE RUN DOWN THE HILL SCREAMING!!!” It was by order of “Life’s Too Short.” I stood there chuckling about the sign, imagining the cacaphony of a group of runners all sprinting down that last hill. I looked around and saw only cows staring at me. It was a beautiful, sunny day, the air was clean and fresh and there was a peaceful silence all around me.

I ran down that hill screaming my lungs out. I may have disturbed some of the cows, but I didn’t care. I think I found out what being present feels like.

I loved it.