At the end of it all, what is enough?
My grandmother Estelle died last week. My step-grandmother actually, but the only grandmother on my dad’s side I have ever known.
I was very close to my dad’s father, my Papa — very close. Papa Herbie visited often when I was a kid but almost always alone.
My grandmother had to stay home with her son, Keith, who was unwell for most of his life.
My grandmother fell two weeks ago and had to go to the emergency room, leaving her son home alone. He died while she was gone. She blamed herself. She died a week or so later.
The whole thing has gotten me thinking a lot about regret. And about love. And about, well, life.
I loved my grandmother, but I rarely saw her. We emailed. I had lunch with her a few years ago when I was in Florida on another trip. She had a penchant for hoarding and lived in a tiny condo with Keith, so going to stay with her had never been an option.
She was funny and feisty when I saw her, just like I remembered. From the sound of her emails, that was true right up until the end.
Should I have visited her more? Called more? Sent more emails? More photos? Would I have felt differently about her passing if I had? Would she have felt differently?
She was 98 when she died. It was a whole life, a long life, not always an easy life. I hope it was a happy life. I remember photos of her with Papa in Europe, smiling. No, grinning. It was bigger than smiling — happier, more real.
So, though I don’t remember those days, there must have been times she left her son, who was in his sixties when he died. What I remember is there being a pull toward him and away from the world.
I know it was hard for her. But I also felt her deep commitment to him, her love. And I wonder now that they are both gone, was that enough? Is that enough? What is enough to mark a life, to make a life?
Matthew Perry just died after a lifelong struggle with drugs and alcohol, after a successful acting career. The country, maybe the world, is mourning him. He was, after all, our friend, at least in our minds.
Is that enough? Was that enough? Does the world have to love you? Do you have to amass great wealth? Must you accomplish something recognizable? Measurable? Envied, perhaps?
They are all gone now. All dead. All both remembered and forgotten. The world still turns.
What did they think before they were gone? Did they think it was enough? Did they want more? And, if they did, what did they want more of?
Glimmers maybe? Fresh blueberry yogurt in glass jars. The Spanish Steps of Rome at sunset. Surprising your wife with buttery leather loafers that make her feel like a million bucks. Friendly dogs on cobblestone streets with wagging tails. The sun on your skin. A smile from across the room from someone you love.
Time. Comfort. Joy. Ease.
Some say you can judge a person’s life by how many people attend their funeral. But I don’t know if that’s true. I can think of many a famous person’s funeral where “mourners” spilled out into the streets and tuned in on TV, and yet the lives they were there to “honor” were riddled with loneliness and pain and maybe even terrible wrongdoing.
I imagine a small gathering of friends at the grave of someone very few knew. They share stories about the life lost, and they laugh and cry together. They comfort one another. They celebrate and honor a life that maybe they alone know was well-lived. I hope that is enough, for them and the person they lost.
Sometimes I write because I understand. On the subject of love and loss, I find myself writing to understand. I don’t have any answers here. I’m not even 100 percent sure I’m asking all of the right questions. What I do know is that now is the time to think about it.
What do you want out of your life and your relationships? If you lost someone today, would you feel good about yesterday? If you took your last breath would you regret that there were no more tomorrows — regret all the “someday I will” or “one day we should”or “when there is time…”?
It goes without saying that you should tell the people you love how you feel. That you should listen to people who need to share their story. That you should taste the fruit and drink the wine and try that dish. That you should sit longer and breathe deeper and explore further. And wander more and wonder “what if?” less.
But what, perhaps, does need to be said is that there is no perfect life, no calculations to be made. Numbers lie anyway. We can count ourselves lucky if we ever truly know ourselves, let alone anyone else. There is only this — this one life, this one ticket to ride, as my dad says.
So the only question is this, if you had only one day in the park, what would you do with it?