OPINION — Five years ago, I was in Huntsville when the world shut down. Five years. Almost to the day. I’ll never forget it.
I remember what life was like at the time. I had spent the previous year working on a book. A memoir about my dad’s suicide. I put a lot of myself into that manuscript.
At the time, my wife and I were living in a junky fifth wheel trailer with two dogs roughly the size of NFL running backs. Our mobile-home toilet did not work; whenever anyone used the restroom our dwelling became uninhabitable.
Which is why my wife and I—this is true—started performing our morning necessaries outside on our rural property. There were posthole diggers in our outdoor bathroom area. Also, a stack of little neon-orange flags for marking landmines.
So anyway, when my book was published my publisher sent me on a multi-city book tour. After several cities, we landed in Huntsville, at Randolph School.
There, I performed my show. Played some music. Told funny stories. It was a gracious audience, some audience members even stayed awake.
After the performance, I was in the lobby, hugging people, signing books, kissing babies. I was meeting other suicide survivors like myself. It was a meaningful night. Perhaps one of the most meaningful of my life.
That night, I remember a random older lady came through the line. I had never met her before. She hugged me and said ominous words I’ll never forget:
“Don’t waste today, sweetheart. It’s all you have.”
That night, in our hotel, I couldn’t quit thinking about her words. I felt as though her message was a mystery. I’d spent the last four hours hugging so many people that my skin chafed, why had the lady chosen to tell me this? Of all things.
Then I turned on the TV.
The newsperson said, “There’s a new virus…” I turned up the volume. “The CDC recommends you DON’T HUG ANYONE.”
Covid hit. The next morning, my publisher canceled our tour. My book tanked. In a month, my memoir was in the bargain bin at Big Lots.
I was out of a job for years. Just like everyone else. All I did was sit around. Sitting around isn’t good for you.
Then we became caregivers for my wife’s mother. Being a caregiver, as it turns out, isn’t good for you, either.
Then came my health scare. We thought maybe I had stomach cancer. I couldn’t eat. I lost a lot of weight. Blah, blah, blah.
You don’t need details. What I’m getting at is this: Last night, I was at Randolph School. Again. Same stage. Five years later. Doing my show.
The audience was laughing at my jokes. People were singing along with the hymns. I hugged people until almost midnight. And when I got backstage I cried.
Because I’m not the same guy I was five years ago. My life is immeasurably richer. I have many more scars. But I also have more love in my life.
I’d like to think I’m stronger, but I’m probably just dumber. I think I’m closer to God, whatever that means. But I’m probably just kidding myself.
Even so, above all else, I’m still here. And if you’re reading this, you’re here too. And that’s not nothing.
So if you’re still reading my words, first of all, God help you. Second of all, the next words are for you:
Don’t waste today. It’s all you have.
Sean Dietrich is a humorist and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His column appears weekly in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored 18 books and makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry.
