Tool of the Month - The Last Time
I learned this skill from Sam Harris. Sam’s way with words simply cannot be improved upon. So get your mind blown straight from the source.
If you want to operationalize The Last Time even more… do what I did and get the Life Calendar from Tim Urban that Sam mentions. Again, I don’t promote medicine I myself don’t take. My own life calendar is featured below in The Parade of Shadows.
Testify!
In this edition of Testify!, we are given the privilege of direct access to the Field Notes of a caregiver working in a residential support home. She is embodying the wisdom of The Last Time every day in her job.
Field Note Honors: The Girl with the Princess Room
(A study in grief, care, and the mistaken diagnosis of mourning)
I used to take Nicole home to her father’s house. She had a bedroom fit for a princess, and he adored her. My role was to help her settle in for the evening—shower, cozy pajamas, maybe brush her hair. It was sweet. It was gentle. It made sense.
So when I found her here—living in this cockroach-ridden house, staff muttering complaints about her refusal to shower—I had questions.
I went to her softly. I asked about her dad.
“He died two months ago,” she said.
Tears. Hollow eyes. Diminished appetite. Matted hair. She hadn’t been eating. She hadn’t been bathing. Of course she hadn’t.
I washed her face gently with warm water. I made her bed. I brushed her hair. I brought her lunch.
Then I asked, “Would you like help with a shower? You’ll feel so much better.”
She looked at me with quiet pleading and said, “Yes, please.”
And then, when the water touched her skin, she whimpered: “I’m scared.”
I called on-call to ask: “Is she being treated as someone in mourning… or someone with behavioral issues?”
The manager said: “She’s a big problem.” Then, quieter: “I guess she could be grieving.”
Nicole’s not a problem. She’s the girl with the princess room whose father is no longer alive. She’s someone mourning, still seeking safety. And today, I got to help her remember what warmth feels like.
Epilogue Transmission:
The next day, Nicole was still sad, but something had shifted. She entered the shower with less resistance. She lingered in the stream—playful, almost.
Later, I saw a scattered deck of cards on her bed, familiar from her father’s house. She mumbled something, soft and muddled. I leaned in.
“I don’t have anyone to play cards with.”
So we played. She shuffled into the living room beside me, fragile but determined. And she beat me—at her version of Go Fish, with rules known only to her.
For a moment, I saw her again. The girl with the princess room. Still here.
Parade of Shadows
Sometimes I can tune in to The Last Time by accomplishing something for The First Time. As I write this, it’s my day off …the first Wednesday in July, and for the first time, I rode a stand-up paddle-board from my backyard to The Gulf. I’ve been wanting to try it since moving here a month ago. For weeks I kept looking at the map …wondering if I could paddle the black-water crick behind my house till it reached the brackish lagoon …then paddle across the lagoon to the thin strip of ivory sand on the far shore …then carry the board just a few yards to the other side of the strand and …Bam! There it should be. The salty, transparent, emerald waves of the sea.
I didn’t see anyone else in my neighborhood trying this, though. Was the tempting closeness of the beach on the other side of the lagoon just a trick of the eye? Would the speed-boats racing across the boat channel in the distance be able to see me on a paddle board? Could I paddle fast enough to cross their path safely? So this morning I paddled down to a point in the lagoon where the distance between the shores was narrowest. I looked across and said, what the hell, and paddled my ass off. It turned out to be pretty easy. I got so excited I decided to make this a weekly ritual. A regular dose of vitamin D and cardio. I can’t wait to paddle this route with my son. And my dad. My dog!
But let’s take a sober turn and use our tool of the month. Let me remember that one day… I’ll paddle this route for the last time. (Oh geez …maybe that day was today.) But if I’m committed (or addicted) and do this every week… and if I’m really lucky and do this till I’m 90 years old, I’ll get to repeat this feat about 1,776 more times. Maybe that seems like a large number to you. To me, it’s shockingly tidy. In fact it fits perfectly into the lower third of a standard size poster I have leaning against my office wall. It’s the poster reminding me every day just how many “Wednesdays” I have left.
My Life Calendar.
I crossed out the weeks I’ve already used up.
By the time you read this, I’ll be traveling to see my mentor and inspiration, Barry Michels. I made the first of many pilgrimages to meet Barry exactly 10 years ago when he taught his Tools workshop with Phil Stutz at Omega. But this trip will be the last time. Barry has Lewy Body Dementia. He recently announced next week’s Shadow Workshop at Omega will be his last.
I’m incredibly grateful to know all this. I can feel an urgency rising. I want to show up for this moment. I want to squeeze so much out of this next week, that it spits out every ounce of regret I could possibly feel in the future. I’ll start by literally squeezing Barry if he’ll let me.
May we all show up as if it’s the last time. May we squeeze this moment so hard, that it spits out every future regret like seeds from a Fourth of July watermelon.
Thank you for indulging me.
Don’t stop,
