When I was little, my cousins and I loved nothing more than building elaborate sandcastles and sculptures at the beach each summer. These ventures always began with grand plans and fancy decorating schemes, but as the tide started coming in, more and more cousins were diverted from art design to structural reinforcement, until our game was forgotten in the race against the water. Even with our best efforts, it was eventually swept away – an unfulfilled maze of failed sea walls with none of the fun embellishments we had planned. We became so intent on saving our masterpiece from (really inevitable) destruction that we forgot to enjoy it while we had it.
As time went by and I began to spend more time in ambulances and hospitals than at the beach, I was surprised to learn that this ‘sandcastle syndrome’ wasn’t confined to ambitious kids on a summer holiday. It extends into our adult years, influencing our approach to things that are equally fragile, but much more precious.

As much as we hate to admit it, we all know that life ends - no matter how much we try to protect it. Rather than accepting this, however, we respond with fear – trying desperately, frantically, to put up as many walls and take as many medicines as possible, concentrating all our energies on running as far away as we can from something we know will eventually catch us anyway. And somehow, we get so busy running, so busy trying not to die…that we forget to really live. We forget to take advantage of every moment to fill our lives with as many experiences, as much beauty, and (most importantly) love as possible.

Even if we know in the back of our minds that life will eventually be over, we often forget – unless reminded – how unexpected and sometimes cruelly short it can be. One of my young trauma patients once told me she had fought with her boyfriend several hours before a big party, only to call him at the last minute and told him “let’s not be stupid, just come pick me up and we’ll talk this out later.” She described the chilly silence as they rode in the car, which was broken only by a loud noise that startled them both. She continued, “The last thing I remember was a big truck hurtling towards us…and we both turned and looked at each other. And when I woke up, they told me he was dead.” She shook her head, almost in disbelief: “…he was dead.” We don’t know when our time will end, but it may well be sooner rather than later – and if we wait till that terminal diagnosis to start ‘living like we’re dying,’ we may be too late.

Even so, knowing life won’t last forever should make it not more frightening, but more precious. If we have only a few moments, then every second is a priceless opportunity – and a challenge - to live without regrets, without waiting until tomorrow to say “I love you” or to end a fight. Surprisingly enough, I’ve noticed that the people who don’t fear death are often the ones who are the most aware of it. From the paramedic instructor whose philosophy was “always eat dessert first, because you never know when you’re going to die,” to my pediatrician great-grandfather, who advised his family to “live so that at any moment you can shake hands with yourself,” it is precisely those who see life’s shortness who are the most convinced that every day matters. I’ll never forget walking into a patient’s room soon after she’d been told she might have only a few months left to live, and asking her if there was anything special she wanted or needed to do. She smiled peacefully and thought for a moment before saying “No… nothing in particular. It’s been a great life. If these are my last few months, I’m just going to be sure to really enjoy them.”

It took these words, from a patient at death’s door, to teach me how I wanted to live. I’m still convinced there is value in planning for the future and common sense caution– just as my cousins and I eventually learned it was smarter to build our sandcastles away from the tide’s edge. Once we had selected our spot, however, we simply concentrated on making it the most beautiful, unique sandcastle ever. We knew eventually the tide would wash it out to sea to clear the way for others. Such is the nature of sandcastles, and of lives. Each is precious and irreplaceable and we are only guaranteed one day – the one we have – to create a masterpiece.

Becca Danis