Death Reminds You What Really Matters In Life
I'm mourning, learning, and reflecting after the passing of my grandmother
TW: Death of a loved one
Nothing clarifies your priorities quite like a tragedy, crisis, or major event.
The near-visceral feeling of shock cutting your mental clutter away until you are left with the very few things that matter is often nearly as memorable as the event itself.
I’ve experienced this three times in the past 18 months, including when I went into labor, when my husband got unexpectedly called back to work when our newborn son was two weeks old, and most recently, this Sunday morning.
I was bathing my toddler when I picked up my ringing phone, answering to my mother who, through hysterical sobbing, told me my 95-year-old grandmother Oma had passed away in her sleep.
For me, this period is filled with lots of reflection on the memories I shared with my grandmother as a way to celebrate her long, happy, and love-filled life.
Oma, age 94, celebrating Thanksgiving with my son Luca, who is her great grandson.
Her death, like death often does, also has me deeply reflecting on what really matters to me in my life.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how at the end, when your life has shrunk to the size of a nursing home’s room, your memories are what you subside on.
But I imagine that only certain memories matter enough that you’ve held onto them for nearly a century of life.
I imagine some of those memories are snapshots of a specific and meaningful event–
Even at age 95, Oma never forgot the details of her wedding, meeting her great-grandson, or the pain of seeing her husband’s body being carried through the halls of the VA home.
Then, some memories are more of a conglomeration of moments where you remember the general sense of a chapter in your life.
Such as how Oma still swapped happy stories with her 99 year old sister about their shared childhood memories the day before she passed.
Or for me, I know that as long as I still have any memories at all, I’ll always remember the joy of falling in love with my husband as we talked the night away when we first started dating, hand in hand while consuming copious amounts of wine and chocolates.
But honestly, if I’m lucky enough to live to 95, there will be a lot I WON’T remember.
I won’t remember the performance evaluation I got in 2019.
I won’t remember the number I had in my bank account in 2023.
I won’t remember the name of that one client who drove me crazy (in my PAST job, not ya’ll, don’t worry).
I probably won’t even remember how many years it took me to hit my business revenue targets.
When you are in your twilight years, there’s a lot that you won’t care about at all that you lost sleep over last night.
But you will remember those core memories and the general theme of a particular life chapter.
You’ll remember that family vacation and that birthday celebration.
You’ll remember celebrating Thanksgiving with your great-grandson.
You’ll remember whether you woke up in every morning dreading your job or looking forward to it.
And you’ll remember what you didn’t do in the form of regrets after it’s too late to take advantage of that opportunity or make new memories. And although life is hopefully long, your opportunity to make certain memories is often terribly and painfully short.
You can only hang out with young kids for a few years before they’re not young kids anymore.
You can only go on a backpacking trip when you are physically able to make the trek.
You can only hear more (always wildly entertaining) stories about your grandmother’s childhood when she’s still around to regale you.
And honestly, life isn’t as long as you think. Even a very long life, such as my grandmother’s 95 years and 3 weeks, is still only a short 4,943 weeks long.
When you get to the end of however many weeks you have, what memories would you like to have to wrap around you to warm you in those final weeks?
I write this in part to honor my grandmother, who left a legacy of being incredibly devoted, loving, witty, and kind until the very end.
(Oma truly was oh so kind— Apparently there was a different Jean in her nursing home who the nurses weren’t a huge fan of, but the tears abounded when the staff heard the news, because my Oma, Jean Newton, was loved wherever she went.)
In part, I write this to honor my own grieving process, emotions, and reflection— writing has always been a way I make sense of this messy existence.
But I also hope you can borrow some of my deathbed-bestowed clarity without suffering through tragedy yourself.
Please, take a minute to pause and reflect on the big questions, such as…
What memories can you make right now that you can’t make later?
In 50 years from now, how would I like to remember this time of my life? Consider both specific events and general themes/feelings.
What am I letting steal my precious time and energy right now that I won’t care about or even remember when I’m 95?
How would I like to be remembered after I’m gone?
Given that we’re not guaranteed a long and healthy life, what experiences do I truly want to experience? What might I regret in the decades to come?
What experiences will I happily let go of to make room for what I care the most about?
Resources to Reflect on this Further:
Books:
Articles:
Exercises:
PS: How am I doing, you ask?
Honestly, I’m OK— obviously not great, but I carry a lot of peace knowing that Oma had as smooth and painless of a death as possible after 95 good years.
I took a few days to rest and reflect, and I likely will take more after her memorial and funeral, but in the meantime I’m finding a lot of joy in supporting my clients in building a career and life they can happily remember.
So, if you’re a current client of mine, I’ll thank you in advance for any flexibility I ask of you as far as scheduling, but rest assured that if we’re still meeting it’s because it’s what I need at the moment. I promise you that I’m taking care of myself in whatever way makes sense for that day, and it’ll look a bit different every day.