My brain is constipated. I want to write something as I feel I have something inside my head I need to release, but I just can’t put my finger on what it is. It’s about mortality. Or maybe it's about reflections on the type of legacy I want to leave. And I wish that what I am about to write here would be profound or helpful to me - or anyone.
A few years ago, just before my dad died, I wrote many of my thoughts on the fleeting nature of life as both my brother-in-law and first boss had recently died. Since then, my family has lost 3 of our elders: my dad in 2015, and both my parent-in-laws in 2020. The grief process aftermath of each has been vastly different.
It seemed like my dad was dying or preparing to die for 10 years before he finally did. This allowed us to enjoy every visit and conversation as though it might have been the last. He was an open book and often asked for my help in organizing his finances and accounts. My mom and dad thinned out things around their home for years, and the logistics of handling a parent’s “estate” after the death of one was made as easily as possible by my dad. For the most part, there were no surprises discovered or mysteries to solve after he died, other than the name of his favorite elementary school teacher required as a security check for a Verizon logon. The answer was in the autobiography he had written years before!
My in-laws were not at all like this. There was never talk of dying or any health issue they might have had. There was no organizing of the home or thinning out of belongings. There was little transparency between the two of them, much less any transparency with Lori (my wife, their daughter) and me. There were no emotional farewells after each visit because there was no indication that they wouldn’t live for many more years. Alas, that was not the case.
In February 2020, my father-in-law Gerald died unexpectedly at age 81, leaving clues as to their "estate" affairs tucked in amongst stacks and stacks of mail scattered throughout their kitchen and living room… on tables… on chairs… in boxes… in desk drawers... and even in bowls. In some cases, paperwork went back more than 20 years. In the year or so prior to his death, having experienced how well my dad had prepared his accounts, I had tried to get Gerald to be more transparent about their financial/business affairs. Other than getting the combination to the safe, it was too little too late. The rest would have to be figured out by good ole fashioned detective work. It’s not that my mother-in-law BJ didn’t know about their finances. She knew the basics of some of it, but not the details.
Long story short, I spent a good part of the months following Gerald's passing going through much of that mail and sorting out what’s what. I had a sense of urgency, not really knowing BJ's health situation. I got my arms around bills, insurance, accounts, tax returns, credit cards, etc., and organized it all in over 25 boxes, several spreadsheets, and Quicken. I set up important utilities on auto-pay and made sure I had online access to everything. I got it all together and educated BJ on all that I found, including several credits she was owed for one thing or another, that Gerald had surprisingly overlooked. This made me wonder if he had been in decline in other ways leading up to his death. Fortunately, she was a willing participant in my process, especially once she realized I was helping to give her more insight to what was previously somewhat hidden. For larger purchases, she would sometimes ask me, "Can I buy this?" or "Can I pay that using this other account?" I enjoyed "taking care of her" in this way. It was a fun process for me as I like solving mysteries and organizing things, but it also gave me time to spend with BJ who was quite a character. She definitely tested my patience as, like most people, she didn’t like change or being advised when she was going out of bounds.
We went from 5% knowledge and awareness to about 90% in a period of about 6 months. I still feel there are mysteries to uncover because there are still drawers to go through, though I suspect most of those contain very dated material. Plus, there was a substantial area of her life she kept to herself, mainly her health issues and her online shopping habits. I had to tread lightly. And then, BJ died in December. This too was unexpected, but then again, maybe not.
In the weeks since her death, Lori and I have begun the process of the "thinning out" that never occurred, and the discovery of the remaining 10% of what was not known. While this is a ton more work than what my sister and I went through with my dad’s belongings, it is nonetheless just as much an introspective and emotional process.
When we were in Hanover a few weeks ago, I was going through their rolltop desk and was overcome with emotion thinking about the most trivial of things. Multiplying my feelings was listening to the song The Garden by my favorite band Rush. Based loosely on Voltaire's Candide, The Garden is a beautiful song and is the last song on the last Rush album and is clearly a reflection on life that is 1000x better than anything I’m writing here. How do I know it’s the last? The lyricist and drummer of Rush – Neil Peart - also died in 2020. Brain cancer.
Excerpt here:
Time is still the infinite jest
The arrow flies when you dream
The hours tick away, the cells tick away
The Watchmaker keeps to his schemes
The hours tick away, they tick away
As I was working my way through the rolltop desk piled with mail and stuff, I thought of these things which I noted:
- When people stack, file, or save their mail, do they ever really think that someday someone else would have to go through that and decide whether to throw it away or keep it.
- Some of this mail is dated 2009. I was around then and part of this family. Whatever this mail is about, did Lori or I know about it? Probably not. Did my in-laws not want to bother us with whatever this was about?
- Someone thought this mail was worth saving… for years… yet I put it in the trash right away within seconds. Will I save stuff in my desk drawer that my kids will someday discard instantly when cleaning out our home? How much of my own garbage will my kids have to go through to find the few pieces of material they want to keep? Will they want to keep anything? I’m a packrat when it comes of nostalgia, so they will have a field day going through my stuff. And they won’t know what any of it means or why I kept it unless I tell them.
- There are people in these photos. Some in frames. Some loose. Does anyone alive know who they are? Should we make an effort to find out as these may be important ancestors and there may be a story about them that we need to know.
- BJ had numerous watches in the area where she spent most of her time. Was she obsessed with time? Did she know “The hours tick away, the cells tick away?”
- Do they send you more return address labels the older you get? Because they have enough to last another lifetime and I barely have any.
- The aggregation of all the “estimate of benefits” from medical insurance companies tells its own story about the patient’s life. How much of this story did we even know about? Very little.
- You see handwriting in notes and grocery lists, and you wonder if what you’re throwing away is the last piece of written history in the hand of the person.
My in-laws were somewhat private, and perhaps secretive is a better word. They were also very giving, but in different ways. Gerald thought long term and helped immensely with our kids’ college costs and an annual financial gift that helped us with Christmas expenses. BJ was more of a short-term giver, sending food from Omaha Steaks or just random gifts for no particular reason. But they also gave their time and their selves. In Gerald’s case it was a ride on the backhoe, or a car repair project. In BJ’s case, it was her sense of humor and willingness to talk anytime about anything. They were not particularly sentimental or affectionate with one another or family members. But that’s OK. People have different love languages and express them in different ways. They loved one another, their family, their friends, and especially their grandchildren.
Continuing The Garden…
The measure of a life is a measure of love and respect
So hard to earn, so easily burned
In the fullness of time
A garden to nurture and protect
It's a measure of a life
The treasure of a life
Is a measure of love and respect
The way you live, the gifts that you give
In the fullness of time
Is the only return that you expect
The future disappears into memory
With only a moment between
Forever dwells in that moment
Hope is what remains to be seen
While I worked through that roll-top desk that evening and reflected on the fleeting passage of time and life, Lori worked in another part of the house, unaware of the emotions I was experiencing. Even the following morning, I was still emotional about listening to The Garden in that context. I could hardly explain it to Lori over coffee, as I tearfully tried to read her the lyrics to a song she'd probably heard me play but never talk about.
What is important about this process is learning from it. As I reflect back on the lengthy passing of my own father, I can say I have no regrets. I poured out all my love and respect for him in his waning years, even writing a short book about my experiences with him during a weeklong hospital stay. But it was not always like that. Being that my parents were in their 30s when I was born, and already had a teenage daughter, I felt disconnected from my parents for much of my childhood and adult life. There always seemed to be a generational gap and they didn't "understand" me or what I was doing in my life. Our conversations were never deep, and they didn't probe into things I would have gladly talked about, like school or my career. As my dad declined in health, I outgrew this feeling. I also remarried, and had 3 kids. I eventually understood that their apparent lack of interest was in some ways a respect for me making my own decisions and maintaining privacy about those choices. Those life events gave me the maturity to see my parents through a different lens. It wasn't about them understanding ME. It was about me appreciating THEM and how my blessings were a product of their love, and the fullness of THEIR lives.
With my in-laws, neither Lori nor I reached the level with them where there was complete understanding, with no regrets. After each of their respective deaths, we heard stories of friends who were close to each of them who seemed to know more about them than we ever did. However, with one another and with us - their closest family - they kept things close to the vest. While that feels like a burden for us to bear at this time, it will lift eventually. What we can't fully appreciate and understand are the ingredients that made my in-laws covet their privacy in different ways.
Christian author John Ortberg said, "You can only love and be loved to the extent that you know and are known by somebody." While we may have craved knowing Gerald and BJ more, so that we could have understood and loved them even more, I believe they were content in the way things were. And that's OK. We loved them to the fullest extent that they were willing to be known and loved. We are thankful for them and all the great memories we made with them... at home... at Christmas... at the beach... on the backhoe... and on the porch. What's important is us appreciating THEM and how our blessings are a product of their love, and the fullness of THEIR lives.
How can we be better parents to our children, family to our family, and friends to our friends? How can we leave a legacy that allows us not just to be the benefactors of our children, but to be KNOWN by them, but LOVED to the fullest extent possible? I pray that we will embrace these experiences and allow them to shape the fullness of our time for many years to come. Hope is what remains to be seen.
