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# 2016-12-30 - A Healthy Sense Of Urgency by Abigail Trafford
(IMG) Cosmic flower of life
For geologist Allen Throop, the aha! moment came on a trip across
glaciers in Alaska. "I love land forms," says Throop, whose career
had taken him and his family from Pennsylvania to Australia and then
to Oregon, where he worked for the state government for nearly 20
years. "It was just awesome," he says. There was one particular
place in this endless, untouched black-and-white landscape of snow
and rock. "My favorite spot," he says. He'd brought his recorder to
play some music on the trip. "I sat there for a while. I played the
recorder."
That was the summer of 2001. Throop was 57. Like many people inching
toward My Time, he had begun to get restless. "I was healthy. I
wanted to do other things. Not that I disliked what I was doing. It
was time for a change," he recalls. "So I quit. . . . I didn't have
definite plans."
He happily entered a period of second adolescence, a time of letting
go and trying new things. He taught some geology classes. He worked
on environmental projects in his community. He went on a marine
geology expedition. He visited friends. The invitation from a skiing
buddy to make the 110-mile trek across the glaciers came out of the
blue. At first he thought: "That's preposterous!" A man of his age to
take on such a feat of endurance? His next thought: "Of course I want
to go."
Throop, an athlete who jogged, swam, hiked and biked, trained for
months. The trip took 15 days. The four men -- Throop and his buddy
and two thirty- somethings -- carried 80-pound packs as they charted
their course.
If he hadn't retired from his government job, he wouldn't have made
the trip. In retrospect, he says, the decision to make the break "was
brilliant."
Today Throop is in hospice care. A year and a half after the Alaska
trip, he was diagnosed with ALS (amytrophic lateral sclerosis), or
Lou Gehrig's disease, a vicious killer that slowly destroys the nerve
cells that control muscle movement. Arms, legs and even the throat
eventually stop working. There is no cure.
"Life is short for all of us. I've always felt sorry for people who
hate what they are doing," says Throop. "Since I retired, I have
thoroughly enjoyed all the stuff I've done. And now I'm really glad I
did it. If you want to do something else, do it. . . . Don't assume
you're going to be healthy forever."
This is the paradox of My Time. Statistically, men and women who are
healthy and fit in their fifties can expect to live well for several
more decades. But you may not. Diseases such as ALS or Parkinson's
can strike no matter how many miles you have jogged, how many
vegetables you have eaten.
Throop's story sends a wake-up call to his generation. A sense of
urgency dominates this period of life -- or it should. "That's what
we have and adolescents lack," explains Lisa Berkman, head of the
Department of Society, Human Development and Health at the Harvard
School of Public Health. "Young people can't see their way to the
future. We know what the future holds. Postponement is not a viable
option."
Jolts large and small start to accumulate, each one sending a message
that time is a finite commodity. They are easy to ignore. Throop
missed the first symptom. He was backpacking and woke up one morning
to find he couldn't move his hand. The numbness went away as the day
grew warmer. A couple of months later, his daughter noticed he was
holding his coffee mug with two hands. He recalls her words: "Dad,
most people can drink coffee with one hand. You better get someone to
look at it."
His disease is aggressive. He has lost the ability to walk. He can do
water exercises; a mechanical lift raises him out of the water. With
voice recognition software, he uses a computer to communicate. He
can't play the recorder anymore because his fingers aren't able to
cover the holes.
But his life has been extraordinary since the diagnosis. "This year
has been a good year for me," he says.
It boils down to love. The My Time imperative is twofold: Whatever
you want to do, do it now. And whomever you love, show that love --
now. Throop is surrounded by his wife and family, by friends who
make special visits, by neighbors who come by to fix the bird feeder
in the yard, by former students and colleagues. "I've had two weeks
of wakes," he says. "I've had the opportunity to hear people say a
lot of nice things about me."
Without the urgency of dying, that "doesn't happen," he says. "We
assume that we could say it tomorrow. We're reticent to use the word
love. I've been kissed more this year, and it's okay. The same people
would not do it a year before, when I was healthy."
That's why a sense of urgency is the agent of transformation. But why
wait until death cannot be denied?
Throop knows his time is being cut short. Still, he has accomplished
the tasks of this new life stage by redefining himself in the twin
arenas of work and love. He found new purpose in his activities,
culminating in the trip to Alaska. He found new meaning in
relationships and in the giving and receiving of love.
His health has been stable since Christmas. He is glad that he lives
in Oregon and has the option of physician-assisted suicide. "I have
started that process," he says. "It is reassuring to know that I can
call the doctor and he would help." But he probably won't use it. The
hospice care he has been receiving is excellent, he says. Once it
becomes too hard to swallow and he can't eat, he will be given
morphine to make him comfortable until the end. "That sounds like a
better option at this time," he says.
Meanwhile, he is enjoying a full life. "I have no regrets," he says.
He's left his mark on the glaciers of Alaska and made a difference in
people's lives. He is rejoicing in the intensified closeness with his
wife and family.
Throop calls out to those who have not yet awakened in the bonus
years: Whatever it is in love and work -- "Don't put it off."
Copyright 2004 The Washington Post Company
tags: article,biography,self-help,spirit
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