I admit it-when it comes to making money I am about as skilled as a monkey. Money has never been a top priority for me. I just never saw wealth as a goal worth achieving. Sometimes I want to scream at the world, “Money isn't real! It's a theory! A made-up game! A manmade thing!” And yet, money has literally become more important than life. Children in depressed areas of the world will die today because there's not enough money to ship food and supplies to them. The elderly can't afford their medications. No heat in the winter, either.
Money (pieces of paper and metal coin) is more valuable than the life of a child, and more important than the elderly; it sickens me, especially since we've reached a time in civilization where no one of any age should have to be deprived of anything.
Forget Money, It's All About The Memories
Recently, I lost my brother to cancer. Both single, I stayed with Bill for the last year of his life. He was sixty-two and I was fifty-two at the time. Throughout our lives this ten-year generation gap had pretty much left us at "just okay" as brothers. That generation gap, however, has a way of shrinking as we get older, and my brother and I had become the best of friends over that last year.
I did the cooking and the cleaning, the laundry, shopping; I took him to his medical appointments, cleaned up his accidents in the bathroom, and gave him anti-coagulant injections because of a surgery he'd gone through (the cancer had rotted the bone in his upper left arm). In short, I did everything for him. The extent of my brother's energy only allowed him to rise out of bed and make it to the couch each day. He really wasn't able to do anything except watch TV. He was depressed and frightened, to the point where he would sometimes wake me up in the middle of the night because he didn't want to be alone. We talked. I drank a lot coffee. Bill drank a lot of Diet Coke and Diet Pepsi. He loved the stuff.
One of Bill's favorite shows was "How It"s Made' on the Discovery Channel. I told him that if it's true about all the secrets of the universe being revealed to us after we die, then he was in for an eternity of "How It"s Really Made'. I didn't expect it to be such a comfort to him, but I caught him kind of nodding, as if he were thinking, That wouldn't be so bad.
I had a factory job, so I went to work when I could. On many of those days I came home to something very special. A pot of coffee was ready and waiting just for me. He didn't have to make it. I didn't ask him to. But, there it was. The man was dying, an emotional wreck; he didn't have the will or the stamina to open a can of tuna and make a sandwich, and yet, he made me a pot of coffee. It was all he could do, and it meant everything to me.
Bill didn't eat much as he lay dying in the hospital: some Jell-o, a few teaspoons of applesauce, some chipped ice… As he neared the end, however, there was no way in hell I was going to let him go without him getting his last sip of Diet Coke, and I got it for him.
My point is: these memories are priceless. They can't be sold or repossessed. They can't be counted in the hand or grow with interest in a savings account. They do, however, make me a lot richer.
Money doesn't make the world go 'round. Memories do.
