Addicted to the Next Best Thing
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Addicted to the Next Best Thing

When our three children did well, their father would tell them “There’s always room for improvement.”

The doctor I work for has worn a rubber band around his left wrist for at least thirty years. He snaps it all day reminding himself not to get comfortable and to keep striving for a higher standard.

Seven years ago I endured the expense and discomfort of a brow lift because I thought I looked cranky, ugly.

And the one that causes me the most internal suffering is the number on the scale. Hundreds of times I’d feel beautiful then step onto the scale, see the number, emotionally crash, and believe I had no business feeling beautiful because the number was too high.

Why does the next try, the next outcome, the next guess, the next effort, the next theory that next version always seem an improvement? Why is taking a breath and enjoying whatever “now” is, so hard to do in this society?

In the dying experience, it seems as though extreme weakness is the only thing that gets us to stop this madness. It seems super scary when your body can no longer be depended on and you’re forced to stay still and be left with your thoughts. (I’ll bet lots of readers will stop reading this after that sentence.)

What is it about not being content with how you are right now? Think about it. There are trillions of people on this planet and you are torturing yourself for what reason? So you’ll out-something them? Who writes YOUR rules? Who is your Master?

Is contentedness truly such an abhorrence?

Well, in order to have a better dying experience I suggest you sit quietly with yourself and get to know your good side because this is the only thing you’ll be left with at the end. Take the time to prepare your mind for your end days. And please find the humor in it.

It’s really that simple.

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Platitudes blog #2. Nurses hear this within the hospice enviornment.
Platitudes: words we say when we’re not thinking.
Caring for the dying asks us to reopen our deep, personal wounds.

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