Celebrate Thanksgiving Day as if it were your last

Love what is, just the way it is

Way back in 1998, I wasn’t sure I would live to see another Thanksgiving.

That was The Cancer Year. I was diagnosed in February and lost most of the year to two surgeries, four rounds of chemo and six weeks of daily radiation in the hopes of living long past a diagnosis of the breast cancer that killed three of my aunts.

I got cancer at 41; three of my dad’s sisters died from it, two of them in their early 40s, so I truly didn’t know how many holidays were left. Does anyone?

That Thanksgiving, with just a half inch of peach fuzz for hair, I celebrated as if there would be no others. I still carry that fresh gratitude with me every Thanksgiving.

If this were my last Thanksgiving…

I’d wake early like a monk on night watch, listening in silence as the dark of night magically surrendered to dawn. I’d try to feel the turn of the earth as the new day unrolled like a red carpet before me. Or at least I’d wake as the sun was yawning good morning and take in a few rays or raindrops or snowflakes. In Cleveland, it’s always a mystery and a mix that can change by the hour.

I’d open a window and drink in the day, letting the cold air be my breakfast smoothie. I’d sit in quiet meditation for 15 minutes and pause in that Peace that surpasses all understanding and pray for the grace to be my best self all day long.

Then I’d greet my husband or dog or whoever spent the night here with a kiss or a hug or a huge smile.

I’d make the whole day a prayer and a party. I’d give thanks in the shower for the temple that houses my spirit, a temple that has shifted, scarred and settled with time. I’d be grateful to be in this skin, no matter how wrinkled or saggy or flabby.

I’d blow a kiss to that lady in the mirror with the gray hair and be grateful to have hair. Once you’ve been bald, every day is a good hair day. I’d put my hands over my heart, feel my lungs take a gulp of air and smile at those scars that form a V where my breasts used to be and give thanks for victory over cancer.

I’d look into those big blue eyes and see God’s own reflection looking back and say, “Thank you, God, for this great gift of life.”

If this was my last Thanksgiving, I’d watch every float bobbing along in the Macy’s parade. I’d cheer for Snoopy and wait for Santa. Then I’d cheer for every strange looking pup in the National Dog Show. And hopefully I’d do it with my three grandkids piled on the couch next to me.

I’d take a walk before dinner to make room for more food and hug a big oak tree along the way and honk back at the geese above and not worry about stepping in the mess they left behind.

I’d text my 10 siblings on our endless family text thread, so grateful that we’re all still alive, and pray for the dear nephew we lost. I’d call or text a few friends to thank them for being in my life.

I’d light the good candles and let them burn all day, all the way down, until only the smoke and the scent were left behind.

I’d sit at the children’s table and let the oldest child move up to eat in the Adults Only section and secretly know I got the better end of the deal, gaining the right to put my elbows on the table and lick my fingers or my plate clean.

Instead of arguing over politics or lamenting election results, we’d fight over the wishbone. We’d ponder loudly the mysteries of life: Why is a turkey named Tom and not Therese? Why did the Pilgrims wear buckles on their shoes? Why is pumpkin pie brown instead or orange?

I’d offer a prayer of thanks and not worry about sounding too religious or weird or woo-woo. I’d count my blessings instead of how many people did or didn’t show up on time for dinner. I’d raise a toast and lower my expectations.

I’d marvel at the people around the table and not all the preparations. I’d nurse a relationship instead of a resentment. I’d laugh more and complain less, and hopefully, on this day, not complain at all.

I’d eat anything I wanted and not worry about calories or preservatives or percentages of fat. I’d pile the whipped cream high and if the pie ran out, eat a dish of whipped cream.

I’d ask everyone around the table to share a slice of gratitude. Yes, I’m that annoying relative that loves to go around the table and ask people what they’re grateful for. We welcome the highs and the lows. Someone always surprises us by being vulnerable and going deep. That’s when the magic happens. We always laugh and we always cry.

Someone won a fight with cancer. Someone battling depression survived another year. There are new jobs and lost jobs. New loves and lost loves. No matter what, the math is always the same: We’re grateful for all we’ve been given and how it has changed us.

If this was my last Thanksgiving, I wouldn’t care if it was perfect. I’d celebrate all the imperfections. It wouldn’t matter if the turkey was too dry or wasn’t ready until the gravy got goosebumps. I’d celebrate that we have a microwave.

It wouldn’t matter if the stuffing floated away in a river of grease or got stuck in the turkey. If the gravy had more lumps than the mashed potatoes. If the guests arrived late and without their assigned dishes.

It wouldn’t matter if someone left early to join another celebration. I’d send them off in love, and hopefully with leftovers, glad to share them with the rest of the world.

Instead of complaining about those who skipped out on dish duty to play football, I’d skip out, too, and go long for a pass.

I’d let the dishes go until morning or until all the good conversation found its way to the kitchen sink.

I’d take lots of pictures of people eating and smiling and napping, and a few selfies so they wouldn’t forget me if I’m not here next year.

I’d hug my husband, plant a million kisses on my kids and grandkids and squeeze them in the longest hugs, the kind they can still feel an hour later, then stand at the door and wave at them until their car was out of sight.

I’d watch the stars tuck the day into night and thank my lucky stars – that’s the only kind there are – for this great gift of life.

Then I’d write down what I’m grateful for so next year, if I’m not here, someone will know just how perfect this Thanksgiving was.