The Lottery Ticket

My husband and I agreed not to spend money on Christmas gifts neither of us needed for the sake of having piles of wrapped presents under the tree. He complied, but couldn’t resist filling my stocking with bags of M&Ms and holiday themed lottery tickets. It was a thoughtful gesture and efficient at the same time. One Christmas Eve trip to CVS and his holiday shopping was done.

I cursed him for buying the M&Ms, knowing I’d be plowing into the bag after dinner. He ignored me, dug a dime out of his pocket, and told me to get scratching. The lottery ticket didn’t yield any money, but I came out a big winner.

I’m trying to grasp that I’m seventy-five years old, and don’t look much like myself anymore. I keep trying, exercising and watching my diet, except for the M&Ms. Lately, I’ve been in what I’m calling ‘my reflective period,’ looking back at my life. I do count my blessings, but more often lament my mistakes, dwell on the times I was let down, regret my impulsivity, and wish I could take back words I said without thinking. I understand I could live another twenty years, and I don’t intend to linger in this reflective mood for all of them. I’ll just get it over with now and move on with living in the present, embracing my creaky bones and gray hair.

This reflective period has given me a clear view of myself, naïve in my twenties, brash and impulsive in my thirties. An older me wants to guide and advise her, share the wisdom earned by her missteps. Instead, I find myself giving life advice to anyone who stands still long enough, my kids and grandkids, telling them to use their time thoughtfully because the decisions they make today will affect their tomorrows. It’s all the stuff I wish I knew then. But, of course, they’re busy being naïve and brash and don’t have time to listen.

As I look in the rearview mirror at my life, I see now that my lowest points when I was feeling lost, defeated, and hopeless were opportunities to stand tall, be strong, smart, and wise. The times I was let down, hurt, or disappointed were the hours to shine, rise above the fray, and move forward. And I did. I had to, there was no one else. I struggled through, maybe whining and crying, surely bumbling and tripping, but I never fell. I had that. I never fell.

The holiday themed scratch ticket awaited. My husband leaned closer, sure his ten-dollar investment would yield fortunes. I used the dime to expose the winning numbers and started scratching the ‘ornaments’ on the tree, hoping for big money. Instead, when I revealed the first number, forty-one, it occurred to me that I married my late husband and began a new life when I was forty-one. I smiled, thinking of the day we married, my excited two young daughters, and the celebration with our family and friends.

I moved on and scratched another ornament on the shiny green card. A sixty. We had a party at our house when I turned sixty. My sisters and their husbands, kids, grandkids, and neighbors all came. We put out a big spread of food and danced. We were still dancing at sixty, not bad. I couldn’t have imagined what the years ahead of me would bring.

The next number I scratched was a seven, and I flashed the vision of myself, a pious little girl, wearing my older sister’s hand-me-down white nylon dress and veil with the plastic pearl tiara, about to receive my first Communion. My mother was recovering from surgery for the cancer that would take her from us within a few years and watched from the car as I walked, one child among one hundred in a sea of white, into the church. What would I have told that little girl?

Fifty-five. I was a winner at fifty-five, at the peak of a career I loved, inspired by the many staff, new to America, who created a safe haven for people in the last stages of their lives and bringing comfort to their families. I served, always knowing it was a responsibility and a privilege.

The next number my dime revealed was twenty-nine, my age when my first child was born. Then a thirty-four. A single parent of two with a full-time job, I was thirty-four when I finished my college degree.

It was fun, scratching numbers and remembering where I was in life at that age. Forty-four, got a life-changing promotion at work. Fifteen, skinny teenager, taunting the nuns, grieving my mother. Twelve, first kiss, playing Spin the Bottle in Jimmy Powers’s garage.

None of the numbers I scratched matched the winning numbers on the lottery ticket, but the game was no longer about a prize. I was marking milestones, passages in a life of fortunes. At sixty-seven and widowed, steeped in grief I thought I’d never escape, I met a wonderful man. A widower. I brought happiness to his life, too. And at sixty-seven !!

I was scratching and remembering my successes, not my missteps or regrets, mistakes, missed opportunities, and the words I can’t take back. Thirty-two, my second daughter was born. Sixty-two, I visited Ireland for the first time. Fifty-seven, the birth of my first grandson. Oh, the joy.

I remembered my thirties and forties, the kids playing at the beach, dance recitals, bikes mounted on the back of the car, Christmas trees, hollowed out pumpkins on the porch, proms, and graduations. I thought about how loved I’ve been and how much I’ve loved, the good people who guided me when I was lost, helped me grow, and believed in me. I smiled thinking about the many I’ve mentored and those who mentored me. The gifts of wisdom, patience, and forgiveness that have been bestowed on me. The gratitude I have for a career in service to the poor in spirit.

It was a simple scratch ticket stuck in my Christmas stocking. A reflection of decades of blessings.