Regrets. Over a period of several months, I talked to friends, relatives, acquaintances and strangers, asking them, “Do you have any regrets?” If you ever want to have a deep conversation with a virtual stranger – a seatmate on an airplane or a service repair person at your house – ask them that question. It cuts down on chitchat, that’s for sure. My findings? Regrets come in different forms, from simple to profound, and most somewhere in the middle.
Let me start with some “simple regrets.” I was surprised most younger people flippantly said, “Nope, I don’t have any regrets.” The more I contemplated that response, I came to understand they hadn’t lived long enough to realize what they might regret later.
Others had “simple regrets” at the tip of their tongue.
“I regret not having more kids,” said a grandma, who wished she had a full house of grandkids.
“I regret ever coloring my hair!” said a woman with lovely, thick, salt-and-pepper hair.
“I regret not studying abroad,” said more than one person.
Then came a regret with a bit more impact.
“I regret not keeping up with friendships from high school and college. Those people were a big part of such an important part of my life, and I let them fade away.”
I’ll add I have kept up with many of my high school and college friendships. It’s so wonderful to make a reference like “cherry Cokes at Maggie’s Café,” and your friends know exactly the context of the story. This past summer, I hosted what I called a “slumber party” for three of my closest high school girlfriends. We all realize the “clock of life” is ticking and we would regret not making time to get together.
And then there are profound regrets. I’ll get personal. The biggest regret of my life happened early and shaped much of my life. I’ll warn you, it’s sad. But hang on, there is an upside.
My dad was dying much of my senior year of high school. After seven years, non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma had finally bested him. He was in our local hospital his final few weeks. It was my habit to stop by the hospital every day, either right after school or later in the day if I had an activity. I stood by his bed and told him about my day.
Each night, I leaned over and gave him a kiss. He would give me a one-armed hug and say, “Goodnight.”
But, one night was different. That night, when I bent to give him a kiss, I could feel he didn’t have the strength to lift his arm around me. Instead of his usual “goodnight,” he whispered, “Goodbye.”
I left his room. The hospital hallway was empty and all I wanted to do was sink to the floor and sob. But, I was 17 years old and embarrassed to let anyone see such raw emotion. So, I stuffed my tears inside my heart and there they stayed for much too long.
I had no control over my dad dying. But I deeply regret not taking time to grieve. It was the greatest sadness of my life and I acted like it didn’t faze me – much. It caught up with me eventually in the form of clinical depression. But even before it did, I learned a lesson from that early regret.
My dad’s death gave me insight and compassion beyond my years. I understood all too well what grief feels like. And what it looks like even when people think you can’t see it. I often sense grief or other emotions people aren’t expressing. And that’s been the upside of my deepest regret. An ability to empathize, to ask insightful questions, to know when people need someone who understands or someone to “just listen.”
Over a decade later, a young woman, new to town, became my best friend. We bonded instantly. People often thought we were sisters. (We were sisters of the heart.) A few years into our friendship, at age 29, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. I stayed by her side through her fast-and-furious illness. Because of things I was too young to do to help when my dad was ill, I was then able to see and sense what would comfort her now. At one point, she said to me, “Roxy, sometimes I think God had us move here and had us be friends, so that you could help me die.”
I wouldn’t wish what she (we) went through on anyone, but being there for her was a gift to me. It gave me a measure of closure. I got to do things for her I wish I had been able to do for my dad. And, because of that earlier regret, I had learned. That lesson made me able to minister to my friend in ways I wouldn’t have known if not for that regret.
That’s important about regrets – learning from them (your action or inaction) and making sure you don’t create more regrets. My regrets have turned into the best gifts in my life, only because I’ve learned the lessons embedded in them. Have you taken time?
Next time, I’ll share the regret story that made me cry and had a perfect stranger asking, “Can I hug you?”
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Roxanne (Roxy) Henke used to regret never leaving her little hometown, but she’s come to know living there has been a great gift, and led to writing this column. You can contact her at roxannehenke@gmail.com.
