If life really is a marathon, then it has a start line and a finish line, and unfortunately this finish line is not traditionally associated with celebration, cheers, acknowledgments of accomplishments or the embracing arms of loved ones satisfied in a challenge met or boundaries overcome. Life’s finish line doesn’t include photo opportunities, spectator seating, or the reclaiming of personal baggage left somewhere at the start.

Perhaps upon reflection and as the grieving process begins, those of us who are left behind are automatically guided toward the memories and the amazing moments of a single life that has improved the quality of so many others. Like a blind person struggling to navigate her way through a new room, we reach out tentatively, hesitantly and with hope that the next step taken will lead us in the right direction, a direction forward in our own lives with a heightened sensitivity in the knowledge that we too shall have our moment of crossing that finish line and understanding that its importance is truly based on the memories that are created along each mile. It’s the journey in total that comprises our lives, defines our impact and creates a few instances that our friends and family will look back on as irreplaceable gems upon our passing or in the best of situations, while we’re still alive to share and recount them. It’s these leave behinds that affect the way they have lived their lives in the past, and how they will live their lives in the present and in the years to follow.

And so it continues. As a coach, writing about life and death is perhaps the most useless exercise one can undertake, as there is no new course of action, no modifications that can be taken, no prescriptions that can be changed and no behavioral adaptations that can change the unyielding inevitability of the end result. In short, there’s simply no room for performance improvement. What happens when we all cross that finish line and what lies beyond is anyone’s guess. I’ve never believed in a hereafter, and I’m not sure why. I consider myself to be a fairly spiritual person but to me, focusing on a life beyond the one I am in, seems an invitation to waste the precious moments that we are given in this life. I have witnessed the passing of both my parents and a handful of friends, and perhaps the hope that their life will somehow continue is what should lead me to believe that there must be something beyond the present, a continuation of that energy if for no other reason but the sheer disbelief that anything so amazing can not simply be extinguished. As I sit here today, typing this while waiting to hear whether Wally has crossed his own finish line, I am being led toward a realization that the afterlife is not in some alternate universe or spiritual plane, but the hereafter is defined through the impact that our lives have on others while we are actually living. It is the culmination of our actions which leaves behind a crumb of our existence, of our values and of our beliefs.

So many religions focus on remembering the person that has passed in the days following their death. I’ve always thought that this was primarily a cathartic experience for the survivors, an exercise to help the berieved to get on with their own lives. Upon reflection, however, perhaps the more pronounced benefit is that it gives the survivors an opportunity not to shy away from an experience that is without explanation, and provides an opportunity to open themselves up to remembering and identifying those experiences that have been shared while alive. Perhaps in this state of extreme unconsciousness where we are less focused on the routine tasks of everyday life, we can make those valuable connections or view the world just a little bit differently by absorbing it through a slightly different lens. In a sense, the hereafter lies in our ability to carry on the values and beliefs of those who we have grown to respect and admire during the remainder of our own lives and hopefully do the same for those that follow us. This is how life continues and how living improves.

As Dr. Fox came out to speak with us, his mannerisms speak louder than his words; he’s run through his course of magic, medicine and experience and his enthusiasm for a recovery seems bleak. Wally is unresponsive to the medications and he is losing weight rapidly, irregardless of how much food he is consuming. Unfortunately, science is not always a science and in this case, Wally should be responding to the medications but he’s not, and increasing the medications earlier on would only have forced him into kidney failure which means that he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he has. He might have a cancer that isn’t showing up on the blood work or some other cardiac malady that can only be uncovered through invasive diagnostic surgery, which is out of the question given his catabolic and weakened state. His body is consuming protein faster than he can ingest it. He’s dropped another pound and even for a professional marathon runner, he would be considered ridiculously skinny. I lived through this with my mother and understand that when the body begins to shut down, it is exceedingly hard to reverse the process. In short, we have shifted from a course of care in the hopes of recovery to a hospice situation of doing what is necessary to keep him comfortable for as long as possible. Cindy and I have talked about this and the sense of inevitability is weighing as heavily on us as the fluid on Wally’s lungs. We are all now having trouble breathing.