Be kind to all versions of you.

Especially the ones that are not you.

As much as I dread my bi-yearly dentist appointment, I am equally fascinated by the experience. It’s a time of forced reflection under duress — what else are you gonna do while someone ransacks, digs, and carves into your mouth bones? I’m sure ( but haven’t really checked ) that the word ‘teeth’ is some form of marketing. You see, these are special bones! I thought in between the ransacking.

There’s little space for talk either. Beyond being reprimanded once more about not reaching behind, in between, and underneath said bones, my dentist also tries one-sided small talk (Did you see the game last night? Great performance by the such and such.) To which all I can do is nod with my eyes (I hate sports), maybe throw in an emphatic gurgle here and there — he’s the man with the knife, after all. There’s ample pain, of course. I usually shed some tears and focus on the discomfort as a sign that I am alive, and that has to be good, right? And then you pay a small fortune to the folks who just tortured you, thank them, and go on with your life. Weird.

Today’s routine check-up was not routine at all. In fact, it was something of a life-changing event for me. There was the unexpected but relatively trivial: You need to come back to redo a root canal. Wait, what? I already had one. Well, yeah, they can go bad after some time. Well, dang !— there goes my new bass guitar fund. I’ll have to pay for some scheduled pain, the alternative being to risk having some unscheduled pain and then pay for even more pain. It’s pain and weirdness all the way down with these mouth bones, I tell you! But that hardly counts as life-changing, does it? What came after was — and I think it’s relevant to all of you.

Do you like to bundle? I do. Beyond streaming services, I like to bundle things like chores, difficult conversations, and activities. ( I once fired like four people in a row. ) The additional difficult thing this day was visiting my estranged and ailing father, who just so happens to live a few blocks away from my dentist in the ritzy part of Mexico City. I debated skipping the visit — last time was brutal — but the walk was nice, and I wanted to see how he was doing. If not as a son, then at least as a fellow human being.

Not great. Imagine a half-deflated basketball with droopy red eyes for a head, perched on top of a barely moving skeleton. About 3/4 to 1/2 of his brain had been removed due to complications from past surgeries. He was dressed to the nines, sitting on a high chair, blasting whatever was on TV without really paying attention. No facial expressions. A fitting way to end a careless life, I thought — maybe even a bit cruel, but I don’t get to decide these things. He mostly did. There were plenty of warnings and course correction opportunities. This was all him.

The conversation was difficult. He waned in and out of coherence, slurred his words, and spoke very slowly. I brought up some housekeeping and finance issues — he nodded. Things are more or less taken care of, I thought. Then I decided to say my last words to him, mostly for my own benefit: “I love and loved you in the ways that I could. I thank you for what you did for me.”

A voice in the back of my head yelled, But he didn’t help you! He abandoned you many times!

“I forgive you” came next, and my inner voice retreated.

“And I hope you can forgive me.”

My voice broke, and we sat there in silence for a few minutes. These words mostly came from a medical ER show I recently watched, but they felt true, convenient — and, well, I doubted he had watched it or cared about the provenance. I meant them.

Both he and I share a flair for deep, sarcastic takes and back-and-forths.

‘How are you doing?’ I asked. ‘Well, the tedium is killing me, my thoughts are tormenting me, and I shit a lot while sleeping.’

‘Well, at least you have a nice view from your window,’ I said. ‘We’re in this existence for such a short time that even those flawed experiences are worth something due to their rarity,’ I remarked.

‘But I didn’t amount to much,’ he responded, changing the subject.

‘Well, in 100 years, nobody is going to remember or care about you, me, Trump, or Musk.’ He thought about it for a minute, probably trying to figure out who these names I just mentioned were, then casually said, ‘We don’t transcend,’ as he slowly moved his index finger in the affirmative.

The most painful and insightful bit came next. After some more silence, he said to me, almost crying, ‘What did I do to deserve this ?’

His expression changed for the first time — one I had seen many times before, usually while trying to teach him how to use a computer back when I was actively trying to have a relationship with him. His current self was not aware of his past self’s actions, but he had enough clarity to condemn that past version of himself for his present end-of-life state.

‘This is the result of your life decisions and circumstances,’ I gestured broadly.

Listen, I can’t justify or excuse them, I forgave them 2 paragraphs ago if you remember, but I felt like he needed to know that in this case life was mostly fair, a small comfort, and I excused myself, everything I needed to say was said I guess.

The Many Yous

I used to think there were three versions of me (or you): past, present, and future and while survival of the present me is and always has been a priority I’ve tried to live accordingly.

Past, young me lived on the edge, sometimes at the expense of my present self — but what a ride, as they say. Now, in middle age, I’m actively working to make things easier for my future self. But I’m also thinking about legacy. It’s not that I’ll suffer in my old age if I don’t “amount to much,” but the effort still needs to be made, even if it leads nowhere.

This is part of my values, though it might ring hollow to those who don’t believe in the communal “you.” Parents, I suppose, are exempt from this criticism since they bring new potential into the world — sometimes, at least.

But then, as my father exemplified, there’s another possible future you — one that is no longer you at all (a fifth you, if you’re counting). This was a blind spot I didn’t know I had or even thought possible outside of science fiction. And yet, here we are.

Just to clarify, this is not the “you” that you grow into through self-improvement, a spiritual journey, or hardship. Nor is it the “you” that crystallizes into old age with defined character traits, values, and mannerisms. Nope. This is a detached, amnesiac, bare-bones version of you that doesn’t know your past self — and, if you’re unlucky, can even comprehend that their own past self, a practical stranger, brought them to a bad situation.

And we are all just one brain injury and a series of bad life choices away from being that person. Chances are, we haven’t really considered, let alone planned for its existence, have we?

I’m the first to admit that I have no idea where to go with this, and this is coming from someone who writes letters to his future self, trying to be both kind and frank. “I love you and hope that you are living to your full potential. Shape up. Correct things if not. I tried helping you from here in the past, but also indulged in the present, sometimes knowing the cost to you. Please forgive me.” That sort of thing.

So maybe just extending this kindness to the unknown self would work. And that’s not just my post-dentist-visit fever talking — I think it has real mouth bones. Imagine waking up tomorrow with nothing but the present time, a set of circumstances, and some choices. Wouldn’t you want nice things, help, reminders of your other selves, even some words of encouragement?

What I just described are those things we enjoy that others build — not for them, but for us, for everybody. And sadly, there are fewer and fewer of those around — something I found equally fascinating and weird. But then again, this was a weird day.

Thanks for reading, and be kind to all versions of yourself.

-Keno