Splitting my time between Toronto and Milton over the holidays means I spend a lot of time on the highway. This year, unlike past years, most of that time was spent cruising at 100 km/h in the slow lane. Surprisingly, the trips weren't much longer, and I actually enjoyed the calming drive, the Christmas songs playing on every radio station, and the time to myself.
It wasn't until after my cancer diagnosis that I begun to tolerate driving the posted speed limit on the highway. I don't know what happened or how, but suddenly, the stress and pressure of weaving in and out of traffic, trying desperately to get ahead of that distracted driver in front of me, tapping my brakes just to piss off that guy behind me riding my tail, no longer seemed worth it.
Maybe I realized on some sub-conscious level that life is risky enough without putting my body into a large, encased weapon that propels forward at over 140 km/h.
Or, maybe my cancer diagnosis forced me to understood the true purpose of my trips to Milton. I was going there to visit my family, to spend invaluable, precious time with the people who mattered most.
From that perspective, it makes sense that arriving in one piece suddenly trumped arriving on time as my top priority.