Learning How to Live with Death

Last Sunday marked the 18th year of my grandfather’s passing. The people born in the year my grandfather died are now allowed to drive. Time flies.

Eighteen years is a long time without somebody you love, but the day I last saw him feels like yesterday to me. Thinking of someone you love with all your heart brings them into the present. You can hear their laughter, see their idiosyncrasies, and smell their distinct smell. Such intense experiences can make you smile. Most of the time, it doesn’t. Anniversaries of a loved one's passing come with a certain touch of melancholy.

I fell head-first into this deep pond of melancholy last Sunday.

The sun is shining, but my thoughts cloud the beauty of the day. For the past hour, I’ve been contemplating my grandfather. I imagine scenarios in which he would have lived - what my life would’ve been like. These thoughts don’t ease my sadness, but they drag me down deeper into the depths of rumination.

I walk through the apartment on full autopilot. My thoughts capture every ounce of my attention. Then I reach the home office. My gaze wanders through the room, looking at nothing in particular. I’m still ruminating, until my eyes get to the blue frame of a particular photograph.

A photograph of my grandfather and I.

I’m about five years old in the picture. It must’ve been shortly before his diagnosis. We both smile from ear to ear - and then it hits me: this is what Grandpa wants for me. He wants me to be happy. By being sad, I do the opposite of what he wished for.

If we are miserable, it would upset our loved ones who aren’t here anymore. In some sense, they still are here. Humans are able to give a part of their essence to the next generation, so that it may live on. One of the great gifts of humanity is that we can not only remember the departed, but breathe life into them by living what they instilled in us. It can take on many forms – and each one of them is special: A daughter laughs like her father. A son smiles like his mother. A grandchild is as courageous as a grandparent. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

That’s why I’m convinced that the path out of the swamp of melancholy is jubilation. To not see it as a curse that they’re not here anymore, but as a blessing to have known them. I, for once, am going to do what my grandpa wanted me to do:

Instead of mourning that he died, I'm going to celebrate that he lived.