“If you live long enough, you will lose everyone you ever loved.”
I don’t know exactly when I first heard those words, but I do remember the first time they meant something to me. It was Thanksgiving 2008, a very”circle of life” year in my life.
In January that year, I lost my job after 29 years in journalism. I probably deserved it, but my employer had sold out in 1999, and the next eight years were spent working for people I would never have chosen to be my bosses
In March I lost my dad, who died at 82 after years of fighting various illnesses and medical conditions. When we buried him at Arlington National Cemetery, it was only the fourth family funeral I had attended — two grandparents, a young nephew and my dad.
In September 2008, the wheel started turning when my first grandchild, Madison Nicole Kastner, was born in Beijing. And that Thanksgiving in Southern California, I learned that the oldest living American — an Indiana woman — had just died at the age of 115.
Thirteen years later, I have forgotten her name, but I remember some of the facts. She lived in three different centuries — the 19th, 20th and 21st. She was married once. Her husband died of a heart attack when she was only 38 and she never remarried. Seventy-seven years alone.
By the time she died in November 2008, she had outlived all her children and all her grandchildren. She had great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren, but that was it. I remember looking at baby Madison, just two months old and thinking if I were to live to the age of 115, this infant would be 57 years old.
As I write this, Madison, who is now Artemis, is a week from her 13th birthday. Her brother Lexington will be 10 in November. Their little sister Albanie will be 7 on Halloween. When Pauline remarried, I found myself with a wonderful new son-in-law and three more terrific grandchildren.
They bring me so much joy, but not nearly as much as my two children have brought me in the 29 years since I became their dad. I think my daughter Pauline and my son Virgile are two of the best people I have ever known.
Still, the wheel is turning in other ways. My wife has suffered through all sorts of ailments, from a broken back to a mistaken diagnosis of dementia to a colostomy and its reversal, and my closest friend in the world is battling to come to terms with a terrible part of his life.
My mother died at age 93 last year, and I have been stunned by the fractures in our family over the estate.
I will be 72 in December, and while I have hardly lost everyone I ever loved, I definitely seem to have reached a point where life takes back more than it gives.
Two of the most serious situations involve my wife and my friend.
Together?
No, that was my first wife.
With your friend?
No, but pretty much with everyone else.
It isn’t easy. When I think of all that is going on with friends and family, it is a rare day that I don’t find myself with tears in my eyes or a lump in my throat at least once.
Sometimes, I cry.
Some lessons take longer to learn than others. When my mother died, I felt no reason to mourn her death. She lived long enough to hold three great-grandchildren in her arms and all five of her children are still alive. I doubt she felt cheated.
And whether I die tonight or in 20 years, neither will I. I would like to see my grandchildren grow to adulthood, but beyond that, I don’t want to cause any pain and I don’t want to be a burden. I dread the thought of not being able to take care of myself.
I think all that really matters at this point is to do what I can to help those who need help, and to make the most of whatever years I have left.
I do believe this life is just a step on the way to something better, although I have no idea how many steps there are between here and the end of the journey. To steal a phrase from a wonderful campaign aimed at gay and lesbian teenagers, it gets better.
And there will come a point, to use another famous phrase, when all my trials will be over.
We just have to keep plugging away. That 6-year-old boy in the picture, with his 4-year-old sister, knew in 1956 he had a long road to travel.
He had his trials, and he didn’t pass all of them, but he never gave up.
That’s maybe the best thing I could ask anyone to think of when they think of me after I’m gone.
The picture at the beginning of the piece is from 1962. It’s my mother’s side of the family — her parents, her grandmother and great aunt, her brother and his wife, their four children and my mother’s five as well as her and my dad.
I’m the one on the upper right — 12 years old that summer and the oldest person in the picture who is still living.
The years, they pass.
They certainly do.