The Many Versions We'll Remember
Saying goodbye to my father-in-law and walking a family through grief
On Thursday, we said goodbye to my father-in-law in our own little ways, in little meaningful ways. Dave’s father was two weeks shy of his 94th birthday, and his passing was in some ways both a prolonged and short time coming. Dave and his mom were by his side, recounting stories of past trips to Europe, an epic father-son adventure to Antarctica, and how much he was loved and cared for.
Knowing John for a third of my life and only a sixth of his, it strikes me as exactly the way he would want to leave this world: reminiscing about the rich and daring journeys he experienced with those he cared for. If it reveals anything about his character, he consistently reminded us that he would skydive again for his 100th birthday and was holding on for that chance.
Death is one of the sliding doors moments of our lives. It demarcates befores and afters. It provides a picture in our mind of what life was like with that loved one in the world and an unknown of what lies beyond. It is a shift that happens all at once upon their last breath, and yet, the ripples of its meaning will continue to roll over us in the coming weeks and years.
We remember our part in the story of hearing the news of our beloved’s passing - where we were, how we found out, our initial messy emotions. I’ve experienced my share of those moments, even as recently as my grandmother's passing in 2020 and the immense guilt I carry about not introducing Brendan to her in person. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the sweet whisps of dark roast coffee and the acid diesel wafting up from the U-Haul we just rented to move our belongings into storage for our home renovation. I can even smell the trails of cigarette smoke that my mom extinguished as she picked me up from high school to share that my grandfather had died when I was a freshman. Some sliding doors, some before and afters are indelibly marked.
As we shared the news with Brendan, I wondered what he would remember from that moment. Would he memorize the look on his father’s face as they snuggled tight, full of tears and longing to take the pain away? Would he hate us for not being able to say goodbye, even though there was no way we could make that happen?
Or, would he recall a version of his grandfather that celebrated his fourth birthday by playing with his cane and trying to do his best dinosaur impression? Would his mind wander back to Christmas when they visited him in hospice and wheeled him around the facility? What version of John would Brendan cling to?
That’s the thing about grief - it makes your brain spin to weave an image of how you want to remember that loved one. The version of John that I’ll always remember is him and my father standing cliffside in Costa Rica at sunset in a post-downpour peach sky wedding, joining our families. Another vision will be of when I met him for the first time, his white hair and beard wrapping around a huge smile that felt like home. I wish Brendan knew that John as well - I think they would’ve been thick as thieves.
Even then, there are versions of my father-in-law that live only in pictures and within the margins of stories. No doubt that Dave has a full set of memories of his dad at different stages, like Matryoshka dolls, nestled within each other. Some admirable and awe-inspiring, some disconcerting. Let’s face it - humans are complex and no one is perfect.
In the end, it made me realize just how little influence we have over which versions of ourselves will outlive us through our loved ones. I’m choosing to hold tight to the versions filled with love and care. I hope my kids and grandkids will show the same kindness toward me someday.
Today and this weekend, I’m holding space for our family. It’s a liminal time with this news, end-of-school moments, busy work travel, and more. Next week, I’ll pick up our regular cadence of new posts and updated subscriber perks.
In the meantime, all I ask is that you hold each other tight. Sending love.
May his memory be a blessing that brings you comfort during this time of grief.