Mortality

We are bound to lose everyone we love. It begins with grandparents. By the time you’re in your forties, all your grandparents are gone. All that’s left are the memories, memories we edit in our minds, focusing on the things we love about them. And then it’s our parents. We watch them age and intellectually we understand that they too will eventually die. Intellectually—as an abstract. And then something happens that takes it from an abstract to reality.

My father had a minor stroke a couple of days ago. He is a couple of months from turning 80 and aware that he is entering the last years of his life. We talk about it often, not in a morbid manner but rather in the philosophical way people discuss things like the changing of seasons. In ten years it is likely both of my parents will be dead. That statement was a dry fact and a number——until a couple of days ago.

I have movies in my head of my grandparents. My maternal grandfather died when I was 12 so those memories are of an old man trying to teach a boy how to avoid becoming an asshole. Most the memories of Grandpa Jack are of sternness, because back then I saw him as this scary old man who was always on my case; I was a kid and had no clue that he was trying to help me. His wife was the grandparent I lost most recently so I have a wider variety of memories from being a small child to a man in his 40s. We lost my father’s parents 25-30 years ago so, again, a wide variety of memories: Charlie and I having long talks at his kitchen table. Him and Grandma Julie singing show tunes as they cooked. Grandma Julie making me coconut cream pies when she knew I was coming over. All four of them are dead, so all I have are these mental home movies. Maybe it’s the same with your grandparents. Inshallah I am alive in more than ten years, it will be the same situation with my parents.

Fortunately, my father’s stroke seems minor; he is quickly becoming more lucid and recovering. He will be moving to Seattle to be closer to my brothers so they can help him out in an emergency. If he needs me I will be three or so hours down the freeway—

But what about my mother? If I stay in Portland I am less than four hours from Dad and thirteen from my mother who lives in Central California. My dad has three sons, I am my mother’s only child. Do I move to Southern Oregon so I am roughly between my parents? It’s not just being able to help them when they need it, I haven’t visited with my mother since last May. I spent Thanksgiving with my father but it’s been nine months since I had a brief visit to Central California. Who knows how much time there is.

These situations bring up a more selfish awareness, of our own mortality. I am in my late fifties; I am going to be getting older alone in a country growing more capricious by the day. This is something I struggle not to dwell on. If I had a stroke I’d be fucked, no elegant way to put it. Thank God my Dad has my brothers there helping him (and me once I get my car)—I won’t have that. If my mother had a serious medical situation, my aunt lives close by but she is in her late sixties herself.

All these things, all this awareness—

If you are younger you will discover, with each decade that passes, a deepening sense of mortality. It’s a good thing to think about, to appreciate the time we have, to appreciate the people we love while they are still in our lives and not a collection of memories. We are bound to lose everyone we love and they us. It’s not a morbid thought, it is a wake up call. Don’t assume they will be around next year or even next month. Enjoy your own mobility, your own independance while you can because one day it will be gone. Again, not a morbid thought, more a reminder to appreciate the most precious things in life. It is a truism that money makes the world go round but there is one very important thing that money cannot buy: Time...