The slow march of death

26 years. It was 26 years ago today when my mom died less than a mile from home. The phone call from my dad. The friends coming to my house. The flight back to Ohio from Arkansas. The walk to the corner where she was killed. The friends and family who came to the house and funeral home. The specific moments have blurred with time, but the memories remain.

I was 29 years old when my mom died; she was 58. Before that day, death was a somewhat distant reality. All of my grandparents and an uncle had died, but I had never witnessed death this closely.

But yet, 58 seemed so far away.

Today, on this 26th anniversary of that day, 58 is near. In a few weeks I will turn 55, a mere three years from the total length of my mom’s life.

A lot has occurred over these last two plus decades, more deaths, divorce, and other losses which pushed me to the brink of despair. Death, in its many forms, has become more and more present in my life.

My body feels it, too. My eyes require bifocals. My muscles and bones ache. When I push too hard, the recovery periods get longer and longer.

The slow march of death stops for no one.

Death is painful, physically and emotionally.

Death is relentless, taking things we love.

Death is persistence, none can avoid it.

But death is also freeing.

Death has taught me to let go of things that don’t really matter. The cracks it has created allow me to absorb lessons I was closed off to. The losses have lifted burdens and opened doors.

This is not to discount pain, loss, and grief, but to offer a perspective I didn’t have 26 years ago.

In three years, I will be the same age my mom was when she died. That reality creates urgency and focus.

I worry less about what people think about me and more about how my actions impact them.

I worry less about accumulating possessions and prestige and more about experiences and relationships.

I worry less about gaining power and more about using what power I do have to benefit others.

I worry less about what I can get and more about what I can give.

Yes, the slow march of death keeps moving, but I am learning that this march leads me to a more abundant life.