“Your loss was different,” my 97-year-old aunt Adair said. “You still had a lot of life ahead together when you lost Richard. Herb was 96 when he died.”
I felt a swell of emotion in response. The casual way she said it made the comment hit home like the obvious fact it was, one that hadn’t quite registered with me before so clearly.
It was true. At 64, I felt robbed of our retirement years and all the adventures we wanted to have together. I had called her to share my latest grief article and to catch up, and we ended up talking about so much more.
My aunt, who lives in Canada, is part of a reading and poetry group that meets regularly at her retirement community. When the subject of death or dying came up everyone would share their experiences. As her husband’s illness progressed, they all went through it with her. “In my observation,” Adair said, “how and when a person loses their partner makes a huge difference in how grief is experienced.” Although she missed Herb, she said she felt some relief when he finally passed because he had suffered so much in his last few years. “Plus,” she continued, “it was his time. He lived a good long life as I have.” Then, in a rather matter of fact tone, she told me she thought she had about a year left.
“Really?” I choked. She seemed so healthy and with it. “How can you tell?” I asked.
“I could be wrong, it’s just my sense. But it’s OK.” (I think she heard the fear in my voice.) “As I’ve gotten older, I find I am no longer afraid of death.” She wasn’t sure why but said many of the oldest women in the group felt the same way. It gave me comfort to hear that.
“I just hope I live long enough to eventually feel that way!” I said. “Right now, I’m still terrified.”
I began to think a lot about our conversation. About how stage of life affects the experience of grief and loss, about life and death, and, ultimately, about the power of connection and acceptance. Research shows that as we mature, we can often handle loss better because we have gained wisdom, can identify more of our needs and find it easier to ask for help.
Coming through grief requires the ability to make meaning out of experience and create a new self-narrative, all things we get better at as we get older. The younger we are, the more likely we are to internalize, feel lost and potentially fall into depression or isolation. Growing older also means we are likely to meet others who have experienced grief, whether it’s the loss of aging parents, siblings, friends or spouses/partners. In our later years, It is easier to find community, an important component of healing.
In that one conversation I found community with my aunt. Given that we don’t speak often, I was surprised at the depth we were able to reach so quickly. I lost my mother (one of her younger sisters) about seven years ago, and it felt like the closeness I had with my mom was briefly resurrected. Even though our individual stories are different, we had an immediate common visceral understanding of the nature of grief. But also, the quality of her voice reflected a state of acceptance that was compelling. Her keen observations touched my heart, and that moment of connection felt inspiring. To share yourself with others who know what it’s like to lose someone is a gift.
The realization that life is finite becomes more real after a loss. It is a stark reality that can be frightening but also liberating. I find myself focusing more on what is important to me, taking more emotional risks than before, and worrying less about pleasing others. But it also means mustering up some courage. Life has been fundamentally changed. That’s scary. It wasn’t so hard to realize I could travel with friends, for example, to satisfy the desire for adventure. The hard part was accepting that the experience would be different. Even though I discovered I could enjoy myself in other ways, I still found myself feeling envy when I saw couples heading back to their room after a long day sight-seeing.
I recently got a call from a friend and colleague whose cancer diagnosis has come back. He’s been told there is nothing they can do to stop the tumors from growing at this point. Even chemo, which may extend his life a bit, won’t change that, so he is choosing quality of life. I felt so sad to hear the news, but also instantly close to him. He is someone with whom I’ve studied mindfulness meditation and have always admired his devotion to the practice of living in the present moment. I could hear the sorrow but also the acceptance in his voice and his gratitude for the life he has. His ability to speak so earnestly allowed us to connect very poignantly. It helped me hold what was happening to him and just be there in the conversation. Maybe it helped him too.
Perhaps the key to accepting loss and not feeling afraid of death is about honoring all the feelings that come up in grief including the ones you don’t want to feel, welcoming what life has to offer now and sharing yourself with those who matter to you. My aunt told me she still has periods of feeling very angry at some of the things her husband did or didn’t do, regrets over things she could have done better. “I stew over them half the night. But later I talk with the kids about it, and we end up laughing about them with resignation, acceptance and love. Ah life! Will we ever figure it out?”
Death is a part of life; loss is a part of life. It’s hard to let go of what can’t be and welcome what is. At this stage, I am wise enough to know that acceptance is something that needs to be found over and over, gradually. It is not a static place and it’s rarely achieved alone. The more I practice it, the easier it will be to attain. If I’m anything like my aunt, I know I will get better at it.