I used to brag, “people in our family don’t die!” It was true at the time — kind of. I was 24 years old before I lost a family member, and then it was my 95 year old great grandmother who I’d had the joy of knowing my whole life — her chutzpah, the glimmer in her eye when she said something borderline mischievous, her passion for the Detroit Tigers, her ability to bake the most fantastic cookies, and her palpable love for her family.
In my mind, 95 years old was an appropriate time to exit this life, so my belief in my family’s relative immortality continued.
We didn’t lose another family member until I was 41 — you read that right, forty-one. I had all my children and a developing career when my grandmother and then my grandfather passed away within three months of each other at the ages of 90 and 94 after 71 — yes, seventy-one — years of marriage. I was saddened by the loss of this pair who always made me feel loved, who were always waiting, nose pressed against the glass, for us to arrive at their home. We always had elaborate meals, we always received thoughtful gifts, and we always were welcomed with a warm embrace. I was saddened by their deaths but not devastated. Again, they had lived long rich lives and had reached nonagenarian status.
Certainly, you see my point — our family was blessed with longevity at least, if not immortality, right?
The pattern continued when we lost my dear Uncle Louis in January of 2021. He was just shy of 93, had been married to my Aunt Margaret for over 71 years, and likely only left us when he did because of Covid. The saddest part of losing him, to me, was watching his funeral over a live stream, knowing that I wouldn’t again get one of his enveloping compression hugs, see love well up in his eyes, or hear his soft and deep baritone voice.
Again, I was sad, but my thesis held — people in this family don’t die — at least not until they are in their 90s!
However, my theory was challenged in 2024 when first my mother-in-law and then my step-father were diagnosed within days of each other with cancer. My mother had “survived” leukemia a few years earlier, which had strengthened my claim, but these diagnoses seemed different — they were accompanied by words like stage and surgery, chemotherapy and prognosis, metastasis and hospice.
My theory started to wobble when, in October of 2024, my mother-in-law succumbed to cancer a few months after my stepfather emerged from a four-week hospitalization. By August of 2025, he, too, had left us. She had been just 88; he only 80.
And just like that, my theory got an asterisk. Yes, they had had long lives, but they did die, and they hadn’t made it to 90.
The following January, my Aunt Margaret was five days past her 96th birthday when she took her leave. Her death bolstered my original belief — she had lived and loved for way longer than she had ever imagined and was ready to join Uncle Louis. My heart ached with her passing, but not because I was surprised, more because her love was real and unconditional. She had always been in my life — always — and I couldn’t picture a reality without her. However, she had, like my grandparents and great grandmother lived well into her 90s — this was how I had come to believe life worked.
What I didn’t see coming was that my own mother — just 84 — would leave us just four short months later, that my brother-in-law — still in his 70s! — would pass away within the next thirty days, or that my theory, my bold statement that “people in our family don’t die” was crumbling to the ground — with or without an asterisk!
Of course, I always knew this would eventually be true. My proclamation was really one of amazement and thankfulness — an acknowledgement that while I witnessed loss in the lives of my friends and especially my coworkers and students on a regular basis, our family had seemed immune, protected, exempt, if even for a while.
I remain thankful for this — even in the midst of this summer of grief — because still, what a blessing that the youngest family member we have lost was in his 70s, that so many of us have gathered to celebrate these lives, that so much love continues, that so much opportunity remains.
This season has made me reflective about my life and much more aware of its brevity. I find myself feeling the need to look in folks’ eyes a little longer, to answer questions with more vulnerability, to listen to what my loved ones say — and to what they don’t say, to build stronger connections, to celebrate milestones, to enjoy those who are still in our lives.
I’m realizing that I’ve taken so much for granted over the years. Perhaps because I have rarely lost people in my life, I have come to believe that they will always be there — I don’t have to rush to say how I feel, I can hold a grudge if I like, I can put off a visit until next week or month or year. And for the most part, my life has proven to me that this is true.
Even as we’ve lost folks over the last few years, I’ve had so much opportunity to say what I’ve needed to say — we’ve had information and time to sit at bedsides, to hold hands, to provide care and tenderness, to send our people off with love. We’ve haven’t gotten it all right, but we’ve had chance after chance to try.
This is uncommon.
Two days before my mother passed away, a former student of mine was in a car accident and, at 22 years of age, lost his life. No one was prepared. No one got to say, I love you, I forgive you, We’ve got this, We’re all good. He went out one night for the evening and then he was gone.
That is more common than we’d like to believe.
People in all of our families die — even if they haven’t yet. We can lose them when they are 90 or 22 or — unbelievably — when they are much, much younger. The people we love, or resent, or have beef with will all leave us — there is no other way. We will leave them, too.
And because we don’t know when this will happen…
We must say the thing we are thinking — out loud,
send the note.
forgive the offense.
rebuild the connection.
overlook the slight.
lavish on love and grace.
For much of my mother’s life, she was wracked with guilt over one big choice she made that forever changed the trajectory of our family. She punished herself daily and resided in a place of shame and regret.
For most of my adult life, I have seen her through a lens of frustration. Please, Mom, let this go. Forgive yourself. This shame is destroying you. It’s impacting everyone around you.
Almost the moment she died, I saw her through a different lens. I won’t say it’s awe, but rather recognition that while she was heaping so much shame on herself, she had nothing but acceptance, encouragement, and pride for all of us — her kids and her grandkids and really everyone else in her life.
I must’ve seen it sooner, but I didn’t recognize it until she was gone.
I don’t know how much life I have left — maybe 35 years, maybe 35 days — but I want to live with the knowledge that each interaction, each exchange, each moment is valuable, irreplaceable, fleeting, and miraculous.
I’m still thinking about how this might re-order my days. I mean, I’m still pretty committed to binge-watching shows, completing my New York Times puzzles, and reading novels, but I’m hoping for more moments with those that I love — more chances to share space and air — more opportunities to say I love you, and you matter to me.
Because I’m finally admitting that we are not, in fact, immortal.
Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be.
Remind me that my days are numbered—
how fleeting my life is. Psalm 39:4
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