{Husband & Little Girl. On the walk home from the ice cream store. April 2012.}
It is not lost on me that I am now half the age he was when he died. I am 33. He was 66. It is not lost.
I think about this. About age. Is it just a number? Or is it more than that? Is it a reflection? Of who I am, where I have been, how much time I have left? Is it a reminder? Of mortality, of morality, of Mother Nature? Or is it just a number?
Mom says Dad used to sleep on the floor next to my bassinet in his back office, in that little room where he thought his thoughts and wrote his words, in that little room where he conducted an invisible orchestra and clinked glasses with Heraclitus. And I like this image of him, a burly man, a man who played hockey and football too, curled up on soft beige, his hand reaching up and through the slats, his fingers linked in mine.
Mom says Dad used to carry me on his shoulders. That he used to carry all of us girls this way. And she told me that it would worry her, that she feared he would go over on his ankle. Because he did this sometimes; hands in his pockets, jingling his change, head in the clouds, tripping, going on.
When you lose your Dad you begin to think. You think about life and you think about death. You think about the creatures in your life, those you raise, those whose hands you hold through slats and through days, those you lift to your shoulders for strolls on street of gray.
And so. At 33, I am thinking. Because I am a thinker. Because I am Dad’s daughter. Because that’s what I do. I am wondering impossible things. Am I halfway through? It’s a rough question, one I don’t like to consider or write, but I honor it because it arrives and it demands me. But as soon as it comes, I tuck it away. And I make vows. Silent ones. Sturdy ones. To live and to live well with them and for them. To take care of myself and them.
Because age? It is not just a number. It is more than that. A reflection. A reminder.
A reality.
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How old are you? How do you feel about your age or age in general? Do you ever find yourself contemplating your own mortality? Have you lost anyone close to you? Do you feel compelled to live a healthy life to try to stick around for those who love, and need you?
At a certain point, I think it is somewhat irresponsible not to ponder death, not to let it scare us some, not to use the truth that we do not live forever motivate us to take better care. It would be ideal to be aware of age and not let it dictate everything, right?
The image of your dad on the carpet reaching for your tiny hand is stunning. And the one of your mom worrying over him tripping, because he does that sometimes, is hilarious. And this post? So poignant. You make me feel every word.
Aidan, I love the posts about your dad. You always describe him so beautifully and he seems like he was such a great force in your life. For 364 days at age 27, I am half my dad’s age. That is this year. Our birthday’s are one day apart. I am not sure if because of this or in spite of this that we are so close. I think about death probably more than I should, specifically how lucky I am to still have both my parents. It rips my chest apart to think of them not being there. Dad’s arm not being readily available to link through as I walk down the aisle, Mom’s voice not at the end of the line when I just can’t get my child to stop crying…these are all things that are not guaranteed because I am not there yet. But I must remind myself just how thankful I am for having them here and now.
Aidan,
It’s funny that you posted this today because I was just thinking that I was going to post about this today. About age. At 25 and with my choice of career (teaching) and where I live (New York – upstate, not in the city), I feel as if I am at a strange point in my life. I don’t yet feel like a grown up (and maybe I never will) and I am constantly amazed at how much time has passed since certain points of my life.
I also think about how I’m not where I thought I would be. There are many times when I feel behind or inadequate compared to others – others my age, others who graduated with me, just others.
So, I feel like this spot is murky for me. I’m at a spot where I can still feel invincible at times, but I’ve known death enough that I know it’s inevitable.
Age is a funny, funny thing and you’ve given me a lot to think about as I write my entry today (later, but it will get up).
Elise
“Of mortality, of morality, of Mother Nature? Or is it just a number?”
Aidan, I appreciate how you like morality to mortality. I ponder on this as well. I wonder. Am I good enough? Did I teach enough? Do I learn enough? Am I patient enough? Do I drink too much? I tend to over think and then tuck away just like you. My husband’s dad died 5 years ago in May. They say it gets easier, but because he died due to illness it doesn’t. We all wonder if we are making the right health decisions. Age is directly related to that as well. So what I’m getting around to is that within my 32 years of life that I’ve lived age has always been a matter of how I am living it. Right now I feel much older and closer to deaths door. That should be changed. Because you are so very right- its a reality.
Thank you for making me stop to think about the significance of it all.
Alita
Here I am. Commenting on my own post. I like to do this sometimes because I read my own words, re-read them, and think of something else. Something worth adding.
I am sitting in a coffee shop in midtown waiting to head to my dentist appointment. After that, I will park somewhere else, at another place where I can connect, and do some writing. And then. Then I will head downtown and meet Mom for a cancer lunch.
Yes, a cancer lunch. That’s what I am calling it. It is at NYU and it is for the American Cancer Society. Per Mom, three doctors are slated to speak on their various cancer research. I’m sure it will be interesting.
I’ve had this event on the calendar for a while now. And I am now realizing that its imminence likely affected my chosen writing today. I didn’t think about it consciously as I wrote my admittedly somber post, but I’m sure these things are connected. And this is interesting to me. How much of what we write about, and choose to write about, is affected by currents of thought and concern of which we are not consciously aware? I don’t know.
I am also interested in how the comments will go today because I know my post is perhaps unwelcome to some. There are some people who do not want to think about life’s gray matter, questions of life and death. I’ve met these people and they would rather avoid this stuff and skate on the surface. I don’t (or try not to) judge them for this. Anyway, I am interested in whether people will be more or less inclined to comment today and what those comments will look like. If the ones that precede this one are any indication, they will be full of heart and awareness. And, yes, reality.
Enough Aidan. Onward with the day. Hope it’s a good one for all of you!
I find myself thinking about mortality a lot these days and by most people’s ideas, I am young – 34 – and fortunately very healthy. However, I have been haunted lately by this recurring image that comes to my mind without any warning – and it lurks in my dreams too. It’s of a book, lying open on a table, hardcover, just past the halfway mark. The image is so surreptitious that it often takes my breath away. My reaction the same — a sharp pain in my stomach, dampness in the corners of my eyes and an instinct to reach for my husband and two little ones and hold onto them, forever. Some days I try to draw conclusions – is it some sort of message, a sign, perhaps? I certainly hope not and try to dismiss any melodramatic tendencies that I may have. But, at minimum, the image forces me to pause and be overcome by gratitude.
Thank you for your post today.
I find this post fitting for me as well. I just lost my Mom on Monday to throat cancer. She was only 69. (and, a non-smoker.) During her two year battle, I watched a woman fight for her life and she never gave up and never let it get her down. When she wasn’t in treatments, she and her life-partner continued on with thier lives, doing what they wanted to do. I take such inspiration from that and thank goodness that my husband and I are following our dreams and not waiting until we retire. We’re taking charge of our lives now. Life is way too short.
I think losing a parent or other immediate family member brings age and aging into sharp focus. You can no longer measure yourself against the abstract concept of someday. You’ve seen it, you’ve lived it, you know that this life is finite. The best you can do is live purposefully and joyfully now. That’s all you’re promised.
Up until I was 25 I had only lost a great grandmother and a great grandfather. Both when I was much younger. Both were people I knew, but didn’t know. From 25 to 30 I lost 14 people. 14. Some were friends of our family and some were close family members. I lost three grandparents and an uncle within a year and a half. During those five years I felt like I was cloaked in death. Every time I turned around I was losing someone.
With every loss I was faced with my own mortality. It would come at some point. What would my funeral be like? How would my death affect my loved ones? I also realized that funerals are filled with so many tears -some sad tears, some regretful tears. (The regretful tears saying: I should have visted more; I should have said I love you more; I should have…) My paternal grandpa had a wonderful outlook on death. He was not scared and I admire this. My grandpa would always say – “when I’m gone, I’m gone. If you care for someone, tell them when it matters. Tell them when they’re here.” So I did. So I do.
I’m 31 now. It has been over a year since I last lost someone close to me. I feel like my cloak of death has finally been removed. I hope it stays that way for awhile. However, I know my last living grandma is aging. That my step dad is also growing older. I know death will visit me again. So, I try to visit often. I try to call more. And I always say I love you.
My husband’s dad died at the age of 42. Needless to say the Mr.’s 42nd birthday was charged with emotion. I think it’s normal to wonder, to question, to be a little afraid but then to remember all you have to live for, reasons to be healthy and focus on making the most of your life.
And I did love reading about your dad. The image of him sleeping on the floor next to your bassinet, carrying you on his shoulders…beautiful.
In the last year, I’ve lost a younger friend, and an older uncle. Mortality seems thick right now. I hope I have many more days to come, but living now is what matters. It’s easier not to think of death or imagine it far off. But. We don’t know.
I started writing last night but the ideas wouldn’t sit still until it turned into something about my dad. Fathers are so dearly important. Your description of yours today tugged my heart.
I am 25 years old, almost 26. In general, I feel comfortable about my age, it’s not how old we are, but how we live those years based on our attitudes in life.
Well, I am a cradle Catholic, and am aware that life is short, we need gladen the hearts of those we love because we don’t know the day nor the hour. I lost my mom last year, it was a heart breaking experience that struck all of us by surprise, but through prayer I have come to acknowledge God’s will, not ours. Yes, I do feel the need to live a healthier life, physically, mentally, and spiritually.
Aidan, this post was meaningful to me on so many levels. I too lost my dad as a relatively young adult, when I was just 25, to a sudden heart attack when he was only 58. I feel fortunate that he met and approved of my then boyfriend and husband of nearly 14 years but hate that he never met my kids. That will always be difficult to swallow.
Still, at 41, I am not overly concerned about my own mortality. I know that my life and my choices are wholly different from my dad’s and all I can do is live as well and fully as I can in however much time I have left, be it 17 or 70 more years.
My dad’s early demise has instructed me not to take things for granted and I do appreciate many of my blessings more than most but of course, I still take more than I should for granted.
As I mentioned in my last comment, this past week, I suffered a fairly traumatic back injury, which rendered my ability to walk essentially nil. Luckily, I am expected to make a full recovery, with a 6 month respite from all the high impact activities I love, tennis, running etc. I know I will never take my ability to walk, run and move at liberty for granted again. And while I would prefer to be off the Vicodin and out of bed, this reminder is a positive that has emerged from my unpleasant week. Thanks again for sharing today and every day you blog, your writing never ceases to resonate for me.
This post was extremely meaningful for me. My dad is dealing with Parkinsons with Dementia and it is on a daily basis I think about losing him, about his death and how my life will never be the same after he is gone. I think about the fact that this interaction or this vacation, might be the best he ever gets from here on out. I think about my own immortality and the legacy I want to leave, and what I want to look back see. It is on a daily basis my heart breaks for him, for me and for my family. Losing a father is heart wrenching. I appreciate you writing and sharing with such an open heart.
Great post, Aidan. Hugs.
Having lost my own young father, two years and two days ago, I know these thoughts that creep into the mind’s space — the memories — sweet and tart, the thoughts that edge their way from him to me to him and me and then them, these boys of mine. I love what you say about age being a reality. Because it is. And I don’t think I’ve ever heard it put so perfectly.
I know some of these thoughts too well. After losing your Dad, you can’t go back. And you reflect on various memories when you least expect it. Sometimes it steamrolls me, other times I sit and smile.
Your post is sightly disturbing to me because it’s causing me to think – I am 42 and my mom died at age 52. That’s 10 years. 10. In 10 years my youngest will be graduating high school. Wow – 10 years.
It is hard not to have these thoughts. My brother died at age 42 and that whole year I couldn’t help but think what if?. I have learned over time to channel that thinking into ~ well, we never know. And if we never know than all we can do is live the days we are given to the best of our ability.
Thank you for this post. It has left me reflecting and reminded me to live well.
I lost my dad much too early. He was 52. This post is almost too much for me to bear. It’s been over a decade but the memories all come alive when I will them to. I so get this, Aidan. I was a Dad kind of girl.
I think it’s normal to think of these questions from time to time, and possibly with greater frequency as we do age. I occasionally consider what my time frame will be, but the more pressing question I feel now is the one of impending loss of loved ones. I know you have lost your father already, and I am sorry for your loss. My parents and my husband’s parents are all still alive and well…but as time ticks by, I’m occasionally caught breathless with the weight of the knowledge that they won’t always be. It’s hard. And me too…I was a Daddy’s girl too.
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