A Life & Death Situation

The Badlands of South Dakota don’t forgive: It’s a desert on the Great Plains. The cracked earth, layered in dust, wears a melancholy countenance, trampled by antelope, rattlesnakes, and time. Its stark contrast to the lush prairie grasses around it annually draws hundreds of thousands of tourists, including my wife and me over the 4th of July holiday weekend.

Earlier in the day, we parked our travel trailer along the canyon’s north rim to snag a prime perch with sweeping views. Campers like us pulled into the adjacent Buffalo Gap National Grassland nonstop to snare a first-come, first-served spot along the rim. They included dozens and dozens of nomads, ranging from car sleepers and tenters to fifth-wheels larger than mobile homes. By the time dusk arrived, they numbered in the hundreds.

My wife and I spent the afternoon below in the Badlands National Park. We stopped intermittently to gawk at this lunar-esque landscape from overlooks using binoculars and our iPhones. When we had our fill of the crowded sites, we drove to less dense areas and happened upon a prairie dog colony. I initiated my hazard lights because there was no road shoulder on which to safely park. As we leaned out the open car window, a pickup with Florida plates hauling a camper pulled up, and the solo male driver asked us if we needed help. I chuckled and explained why we had stopped, and he decided to park in front of us to also glance at these tiny, sentinel rodents. As he did that, we drove away.

We continued to “Sunday drive” around the park for quite some time, and upon arriving back at our trailer, to our amazement, this same person had parked his camper next to ours on the canyon’s edge. He looked as surprised as us. We chatted briefly, and then my wife and I left to seek dinner in the nearby town of Wall.

We returned at dusk, and the man, in his early 60s, invited me to bring my camping chair to his, situated somewhat precariously next to the eroding cliff. He called himself Jim. He was somewhat unkempt and had wild, flowing gray/white hair and a matching beard. He was amicable and animated in a loose, unbuttoned button-down shirt and cargo shorts. His eyes punctuated his words, reflecting the dying light from the expiring sunset.

At nightfall came the mosquitos, and Jim ran back to his camper and returned with two lit candle lanterns to keep the bugs at bay. The flames only accentuated his gestures as he detailed the journey that brought him to this crusty rim of a Dakota canyon.

Our conversation had just left the starting line when Jim told me he received his stage 4 prostate cancer diagnosis five years ago. At best, he had two years to live. Jim would turn 62 next week and become officially retired. He joked at the irony of working his whole life only to die of cancer just before the Social Security checks started rolling in. Jim took the inheritance his parents had given him when they died a few years back and bought a camper intending to see every lighthouse in the United States. Somewhere along the way, he added Major League Baseball stadiums to the list. Whatever money remains will go to Jim’s three children, but he hoped to live long enough to spend it all.

Jim reeked of marijuana. He didn’t say it, but it appeared to be for both recreational and medical reasons. Jim told me he felt good even though the cancer forced the removal of his testicles and was now eating away at his bones. He has resisted treatment and told me he hoped to find a way to acquire land in New Mexico so that assisted suicide could become an option for him when the appropriate time comes.

In his youth, Jim raced motorbikes. He loved electronics, and his first job at RadioShack paid him under the table because he was 14. He worked his way up to corporate and then transferred to Best Buy, leading sales teams in Louisiana.

We stared up at the litany of stars the Badlands wore as Jim told me about camping as a child in the Carolinas, sea kayaking at midnight, hang gliding, and diving from planes. He told me he was young but had lived enough to fill two lifetimes.

I asked Jim how he handled being told by doctors that he stood before but one door. He shared that he was buoyed by his Catholic faith and believed his door would open to the other side. He wasn’t angry or resentful. He had a friend in a similar situation who turned insular, shunned friends and family, and started dying before he was dead. Jim opted for the opposite.

The following day, Jim would be in Colorado to visit a colleague who lived there. From there, it would be Wyoming (Yellowstone), Montana, Idaho, Washington, etc. A man with no regrets but one, Jim told me he hated to think he wouldn’t get to all the West Coast ballparks before the baseball season ended in September.

As the clock’s hands moved toward midnight, I told Jim I had to get to bed. He, too, was ready to call it a night and assured me he would be back in that camping chair at 4 a.m. to watch daylight’s first glimpse begin spreading across the Badlands basin. Once he witnessed it, he would return to his camper bed. He just had to see the next day arrive in person. That makes sense when yours are numbered.

I said my farewell, hoping to see Jim in the morning. Unfortunately, that was the last time I saw him. (Instead, his camping chair greeted me from the ledge in the morning.) I regret not getting his contact information, but maybe I had already learned what I needed to from Jim.

As a trauma survivor, I often find myself feeling frustrated and defeated by the daily battles I face. The chronic pain. The emotional triggers. It feels like everything is uphill. It feels like me versus the world, and the world always seems to be winning. Jim has every reason to feel that way, and I’m sure there are times when he does. But he has chosen not to make it his operating system. Jim knows he has, at most, 700 sunrises left to view. He has chosen not to miss them. How many do I have? How many do you?

When I look back at our conversation, I realize that compared to Jim, I didn’t say much. But what could Jim possibly learn from me? Before I said goodnight, I asked him about relationships. Jim noted that while companionship was meaningful, he didn’t want to add anyone. His final love would be boondocking. He didn’t want another person to have to miss him after he passed.

I’m sorry, Jim. But you’ll have to add one more to that list.