I was horrified to hear on Thursday that both Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett passed away.
Michael Jackson’s music was a big part of my teen years—Thriller was featured at every birthday party I went to for a year. I didn't understand the last decades of Michael’s life, why he altered his face so much, the naming of his children, the problems with Neverland Ranch. But I still felt bad that such a brilliant artist was so often overshadowed by rumor and speculation. Even now it seems like the media is trying to milk every bit for all it's worth.
I was too young when Farrah was on Charlie’s Angels, but I cried all the way through the Barbara Walters special. I’m not sure what broke my heart more, the images of Farrah leaping around, blond hair tossed over her shoulders, dazzling white smile, or the ones of her bravely facing the disease which eventually claimed her life. Watching Ryan O’Neal talk about how he just wanted to take care of her, seeing the images of him holding her in bed, knowing their wish to finally be married, I was captivated—and saddened—by their enduring love.
One of the rare times I stayed up late enough for Letterman, I watched Farrah's infamous interview and wasn't very impressed. But watching the Barbara Walter's special, listening to Farrah's beautiful voice talk about her disease, I admired her bravery, respected her, and thought, Would I be so strong?
I learned something from Michael’s and Farrah’s passing. I learned to enjoy every day. It’s a cliché, I know. But watching one of the most beautiful women in the world face her possible, and eventual, death with dignity and grace— fighting every step of the way and never once acting like a victim. Well, that was a reality check and a half. Most of the things I worry about on a daily basis aren’t worth squat at the end.
So, I’m going to try harder not to stress about little things (My friends are probably laughing right now!) and not take any moment for granted. You never know when it's your last.