There is no such thing as too much time.

My OB-GYN's husband died late last week. I learned of his death on Saturday and have not been able to shake the images (flashbacks) to six years ago--when I saw her routinely for pre-natal care. She was pregnant with their fourth child, he was a stay-at-home-Dad and I envied them their up-north, outdoor life. I wasn't sure at that point in time if my DH and I were going to be able to pull it off. It was a very difficult time for me and my OB-GYN was one of the few silent pillars of strength I've known in my lifetime.

Today, knowing how she and her children must be aching, I flashback to those images. I see her face and think to myself 'she doesn't know what tragedy lies ahead for her'.

None of us do.

It's morbid. But it appears to be a new step in my grieving process. This is the fourth time in as many months that I've grieved the loss of a friend or acquaintance. It's been the same every time. My mind instantly flashes to the "before" and I'm stuck, for days, re-living and seeing it all again, but with the knowledge that it ends sooner than we expect.

I'm a person of faith. I'm ok on that point (for lack of a better way to say it).

But I'm left, every time, on this edge of anxiety. Made vulnerable by the indescribable love I have for my 6-year-old son. Please God, don't shorten our time. He still needs me. I will always need him.

And sobered to what matters most. Why do I still let the most impotent of shit cloud my perspective, pull me out of my "moments" with loved ones? A daily battle when it should be a way of life, a manner of thinking so ingrained that I never leave the tracks.

I keep at it.

Not only because I want to grow old, but because I want to do it with as few regrets as possible.

I recall a conversation I had with my Aunt Wanda. At age 85, she told me about the woman who lived across the street from her when the kids were little. This woman had a gaggle of her own kids and my Aunt recalled how they went in and out of that house all day long, hands smudging the glass pane of the front door. My Aunt never remembered seeing the woman clean that glass pane. Instead, she remembered seeing the woman playing with her kids.

My Aunt ended by saying, "If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn't have spent my time watching her through my own glass door--while I dutifully cleaned it. I would have played with my children instead."

My Mom's sister, she imparted this wisdom to me just after my Mom had chided me for playing with my son too much. My Mom had said: "He doesn't play well by himself. That's because you play with him too much."

Not too much.

More like never enough.

It will never be enough.

That's how I want to live, I think. Like it will never be enough and I want more, more, more. From every day and every moment.