Posted July 3, 2023 (Updated Nov. 1, 2026)
When I was 15, I went to my first wake, or at least the first one I can recall. My great-aunt had passed away. The strongest memory I have of my aunt is visiting her at a retirement village in Florida. She laughed about how, at her age, she no longer had to worry about shaving her legs, as my sister and I did.
My last memory consists of looking at her lying permanently at rest in an open casket. In those brief minutes, it struck me—physically she was there, but something significant felt missing. She lacked spirit and energy, but not like someone sleeping or pretending to rest. With her life force strikingly absent, the idea of a soul felt very real to me.
My encounters with death from that point forward fell to the periphery. Although I had a friend in high school living with cancer, she talked little about it to me, except for a passing mention, as if noting what she had for dinner last night. Like most teenagers, our interactions mainly centered around boys, friends, and convening at the local bowling alley. The only other conversation about her illness I remember occurred when my mom and I bumped into her and her mom at Contempo Casuals in the mall. Between the racks of spaghetti strap babydoll dresses so popular at the time, our moms quietly caught up, separate from our chatter. After they left, my mom mentioned my friend’s illness with sadness in her voice. It still didn’t completely register.
The notion that she could die didn’t occur to me or seem possible. We were teenagers, and she was a platinum-blonde lioness full of life. She laughed in a full-bodied sort of way and told colorful jokes at the cafeteria lunch table while I ate my peanut butter sandwich. Her salty language poured over into the hallways as I watched her affectionately greet a mutual shy friend with “Hey, Bitch,” as they passed each other in between classes—a yin to the other’s yang.
At some point, she disappeared for a while, and I didn’t hear much. In a time before social media and cell phones, it was harder to connect. Then, I eventually left for college. She died when we were 21. I didn’t really know or understand her illness, but I wish I had seen her and been a better friend to her in those years.
Now I think about death often—weekly, maybe even daily to some extent. I’m interested in what everyone has to say about dying, from the bible to Matthew McConaughey to physicians (see my book review on The Four Things That Matter Most). I move forward wanting to squeeze all I can out of life and desire authentic connections.
I’m not sure if this is due to my Aunt’s funeral, my short friendship in school, or even listening to my parents about the losses they experienced early in life. Perhaps it’s also the years I worked at an organization focused on lung disease where many of our volunteers and friends passed on. Or, maybe simply it’s my natural temperament and faith-leaning. Why do we think and do the things we do? Maybe one reason. Probably many.
My awareness of our limited time on this earth became even more acute when my daughter was born. After parenting and work responsibilities, only a sliver of my time and energy remained; I had to make it count. Her birth gave me the courage to eventually leave situations that took me off course and focus more fully on my purpose. Our time is short and precarious, but maybe that’s what makes life worth living.
How has losing a loved one shaped you?
If you could take one action today to live more fully, what would you do?
For related resources, see the book review of The Four Things That Matter Most.