One night last week, I decided to watch a documentary while I worked on a jigsaw puzzle. If that sounds nerdy, I agree—and I own every bit of it. I browsed titles, looking for one that sounded inspiring. I love all types of docs, but I wanted a boost that night. I landed on one with this description: “First-time filmmaker and adventurer Daniel Northcott chronicles his search for connection and meaning while visiting 42 countries.” Sounds like a good way to get out of my head, right?

I stood at the puzzle table (also nerdy) searching through a sea of green pieces while periodically glancing up at the TV. Since childhood, I’ve had a hard time just watching TV. I often need to do something else at the same time to improve my focus. That might sound weird, and I often wonder if I have ADHD, but multitasking settles my brain into a place where I can focus on TV. If I’m only watching, my mind wanders and I zone out.

From the moment I pressed play, it was clear that the subject of the documentary, Daniel, was no longer alive. I presumed something must have happened during his travels.

I got a feel for who Daniel was through all the footage he’d shot. He was contemplative and lived life beneath the surface—two traits that resonated with me. I got teary as I watched him teach English to young kids in Taiwan, especially as they wrapped him in a bear hug on his last day teaching there. I enjoyed seeing the world through his point of view as he visited new places.

[Spoilers are coming.]

Halfway through the film, there was a prolonged moment of silence. I looked up from building four-leaf clovers to see Daniel sitting in a hospital bed. I can’t explain it, but my gut immediately told me what was wrong with him—I just knew he had the same cancer as my late husband, Ramón. Sure enough, the medical team performed a bone marrow biopsy and confirmed it was acute myeloid leukemia. 

UGH.

Daniel struggled to get into remission after several rounds of chemotherapy, and the doctor ultimately gave him a prognosis of three to six months. It was heartbreaking to watch this life-loving, deep-thinking man grapple with his imminent death.

“What are the odds?” I thought. This wasn’t the pick-me-up kind of documentary I was seeking. In the moment, it felt like even my attempt at happiness had gone awry. (See: Joyful June 2024)

Then a friend encouraged me to look at it through a different lens. What if it was delivering a message I needed to hear? What if the fact that I’d landed on that documentary was part of a bigger plan? (Did you know that “pronoia” is basically the opposite of paranoia? It’s the idea that things are working out in your favor.) When I considered the situation from that perspective, I immediately thought of something that had been taking up space in my mind for a few weeks.

Many of you know that I recently lost my soul dog, Noodle. Her death was sudden compared to other dogs I’ve lost. In the past, I’d seen it coming for months, waiting for the scale to tip into “definitely not a good quality of life.” But this was different. Noodle wasn’t in perfect health, but she was stable, energetic, and showed few signs of physical deterioration. Her sudden decline wasn’t the ending I’d imagined. I’d always envisioned indulging her near the end, letting her inhale a burger and chow down on some rotisserie chicken. I wanted to feed her whatever her little beagle heart desired, but it didn’t happen that way. Noodle’s quick exit was easier on her, but it left me with little time to process. 

I inevitably compare it to Ramón’s goodbye. After his diagnosis, we were both fully aware that cancer may eventually claim his life. And, if that were the case, I suspected that he, like Daniel, would learn the treatments weren’t effective. We’d pursue alternatives, and, if nothing worked, at some point we’d have to accept that we’d exhausted all our options. But we didn’t get that “luxury.” For all intents and purposes, his life ended in the blink of an eye—the moment he went into cardiac arrest. We didn’t experience the long goodbye that can be common with cancer patients. At the time, I was somewhat envious of caretakers who got more time to prepare for the loss of their loved one—as though there’s a “preferred” way to grieve.

But Daniel reminded me that long goodbyes are just as painful. If I’m honest with myself, given Ramón’s tendency toward deep thinking, the fast exit was probably best for him, too.

Daniel also made me want to live my life in a way that leaves me, too, screaming that I love it—that I’m devastated by the thought of not getting to live anymore. So how do I get to that place? It’s a work in progress.