Each January, when I resolve to be more organized, I look at my desk and think about how nice it would feel to see papers sorted and filed, a clean pad of paper on top of the desk, and my computer monitors freed from all the sticky notes encouraging me to do something or call someone.
I was hoping my smartphone might whip me into organizational shape, but it hasn’t replaced my penchant for scribbling cryptic notes on scraps of old Fry’s receipts or writing messages on sticky notes, which are then reinforced with tape and stuck on my monitor. I’ve even caught myself taping them to my cell phone if it’s really urgent, like remembering to pick the cat up from the vet after work. It’s my own version of a reminder app and it works on Android and Apple.
Sometimes the notes fall off the monitor, despite the tape, and get piled up in the corner of the desk where I can still see them because I believe they are too important to throw away, but I still haven’t gotten around to them yet. I sort through them once in a while and toss the ones that have been done. It’s not an ideal system, but it’s mine.
As I was sifting through them a few days ago, a note caught my eye. “Call Joyce,” it said. I picked it up and looked at the curled edges and the folded piece of tape stuck to the back of the paper. How long had this note been on my monitor before I replaced it with a more urgent note? How long had it sat on my desk? I held it in my hand for a minute and thought through all my excuses for why I hadn’t gotten around to calling her. None of them were any good.
The last time we spoke was in May when she had a health question for me. We also talked a few months earlier when we were going to drive together to a birthday party for a 90-year-old friend of ours. But she was feeling under the weather and called me to cancel. I had talked to her twice in 2020, one of the loneliest, toughest years any of us have lived through in recent memory. I wasn’t proud of that.
Her daughter called while I was at work last week and left me a message that Joyce had passed away. She mentioned how special I had been to her mother and how much she had enjoyed the volunteer work we did together. I called her back to say how sorry I was to hear about her death. We talked for a little bit about how much Joyce had meant to her patients and what a special person she was. She told me her mom died on Valentine’s Day, which was also her wedding anniversary.
After we hung up, I thought about how easy it is to think there will always be more time. And then one day there’s not.
I wish I had called her more often or stopped by to say hello at a safe distance with our masks on. Or written her a nice card.
Now all I have left is this sticky note with her name on it. I’m going to tape it back to my monitor as a reminder that life is short and I need to make time to tell the people I love that I care about them. It’s Joyce’s final gift to me and I want to share it with you. Make that call. Send a card. Drop by and visit, even if it’s a busy day or you think next week might be better. You can’t hug a sticky note.