A "Ramble" about Loss, Fragility and Meaning

I find it an unusual and blessed place to be, as I approach half a century of life: I have not yet in life lost to death anyone who was very close to me. My family of origin is all still alive, and my best friends are all still thriving. The closest I have gotten to loss of a loved one, is watching colleagues having to say goodbye to someone they love.

You don’t, I imagine, ever get over the hole left in your life. A friend of mine lives with an emptiness that’s just as big as it was when his wife died over a year ago from cancer. That empty spot will be there for a long time. It leaves me thinking about loss, about the briefness of life, and about meaning--our own meaning in this world, and our meaning for one another.

I have watched a couple I know age, and as their age advances the wife gets more fearful at the thought of losing her husband. She repeatedly tells him that she doesn’t want to lose him, that he must stay alive. At times I think he solicits her pleas by the things he says to her; but then, we all say things that are intended to bring validation from others. It is hard, when you have loved your life work, to cease it and and to find activities and relationships that are as meaningful. Some can’t transition to other modes of making a difference in the world, and must navigate the classic Ericksonian crisis, that of “Integrity vs. Despair."

You hear about couples where one dies and soon the other is also gone. In some ways, such timing can be a blessing. But in my musings, I wonder if it is healthier to tend one’s own identity apart from one’s spouse, to have something of yourself left after your significant other is gone. My husband I both have our own identities apart from each other. Should one of us find ourselves bereaved, the remaining one would be terribly lonely for the other, yet would still have his or her own identity and could keep on going. But is tending one's own identity for longevity an important task? In the scope of the age of the universe and the history of this planet, is it so necessary to try to plan ahead for survival of such a loss?

I sometimes sit and ponder the significance of this thing we call life, and the fact that it really is a wisp that is here, then gone. We make so much of something so transitory, because it is all we have: Life, in this body, for a few years.

When I was a teacher I’d cross paths with a student with his parents at the mall, or see him at the water park on class party day, and think of how he suddenly looked so vulnerable. What had seemed a large kid in my classroom, someone bigger-than-life who took up my attention and time and energies, was little and unprotected against the backdrop of parents, crowds, and unfamiliar storefronts. The student’s life from this perspective was so tiny, almost ephemeral.

I see that in adults as well. The older I get, the more I see people in crowds as fragile individuals, mortal and breakable in ways we can and can’t observe. We are here only for a little time, and we make so little difference. That skin, those bones, this personality and these cares will all be gone in a short while. And in some way it makes people so much more precious and winsome, seen in that light. They should know that they are really seen, really loved, really important to someone while they are here for a few moments in time.

Thinking of endings and of loss brings the value of life into laser-sharp focus for many of us. We want a greater meaning, we want a hole to exist where we were, once we’re gone. We want someone to notice and care that we walked this earth, that we cared for others, that we were needed here. We have many ways of seeking this reassurance that we really matter, especially when we keenly sense our mortality. Understanding that, we should be more willing to grant a similar reassurance to others around us, even if their quest for it may step on our toes from time to time. No one ever need regret generosity of spirit.