6939

Yesterday was day 6939 of my post-heart attack life. That's nineteen years that I've been gifted.  On April 7th, 2000, my life briefly ended. If a lot of coincidental tidbits hadn't come together in a remarkable synchronicity, it would have been permanent.

I have a fascination with numbers. I'm always drawing numerical patterns, looking for mathematical parallels. I can tell you, for instance, that 6939 days into my first life, it would have been the day before my nineteenth birthday (the vagaries of leap years result in the one-day discrepancy). I was just about to start my second year at Berry College. I had been married for fourteen months. Susan and I were living in a tiny 500 square foot house that probably would have been condemned if anyone in Cedartown actually bothered to inspect rental houses. Today, my life is different. Better in many ways, undoubtedly. But the best thing is that I appreciate it more, because I am aware that it is finite.

6939 days is almost 29% of my whole life. Quite a gift, isn't it? So many people wish for just one more day. I got 6939 of 'em.

I made a promise to myself after my heart attack. If I recovered, I wouldn't take the extra days for granted. I would find the time every day for a moment of joy, for a moment of reflection, for a moment of inspiration. I would tell people that I love them. I would recognize that even the worst days have something wondrous to offer.

Today it's 6940. And counting.