Whenever I pick up a newspaper, one of the first sections I always turn to is the obituaries. It sounds morbid, I know, but it’s so much more than that.
Back in my college journalism class so many years ago, one of our first assignments was writing obituaries. I learned an important lesson then, that I carry with me to this day: every letter, every word, every detail of an obituary matters. It’s a person’s final story. Their last word. So don’t #@$@ it up.
On vacation this week visiting my in-laws in Florida, I found myself reading the obituaries. I learned about people who died way too soon, others who succumbed to illness, people who battled for our country, others who left behind children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, even great-great grandchildren. I read about people who came to this country with nothing, and died with so much more than that. Every obituary was a story of a life lived, memories made, families created.
I remember starting out as a local newspaper reporter, a couple of times I made errors in obituaries. The wrong middle initial, a name misspelled, a grandchild left out. It was the pain in a relative’s voice that helped teach me how important it was to pay close attention to accuracy and detail in journalism.
Since my 42nd birthday in February, when I reached the same age my mother was when she died, I’ve allowed myself to think more of death. As a result, I think more of living. So what will my obituary say?
I married into a family that has experienced more than its share of loss lately. Getting older is scary, no doubt. But then I hear the words of my in-laws, who are in their 80s, and who cherish every single day. They’re grateful for special moments with family and friends, memories made. They carry no bitterness, no resentment. They are inspiring.
“Don’t blink,” my mother-in-law likes to say. Oh, so true. I’m at a family gathering, looking around at a bunch of cousin-in-laws with babies and toddlers, the next generation. Just yesterday I was the one holding the baby, now mine is 13 years old.
Relatives lost, and relatives gained. I know so well how hard it is to make happy memories with the knowledge of who isn’t at the dinner table, who was a year or two ago. A bunch of brave people smiling for their children, as the tears silently fall down their faces. What do you do? Do you look back, or do you look forward?
I’ll be honest with you. I don’t have the answers. I haven’t figured this all out yet. While I was happy to be with my husband’s family, I missed my own back home in New Jersey, with an ache that made it hard for me to enjoy myself at times. So behind my own smile, I longed for my aunts’ hugs, my cousins’ funny stories, the traditions I grew up with and have learned to love more and more with each passing year.
Most of my life, I looked back. And then my 40s came, and I realized how much time I wasted being angry, sad, resentful, bitter. How many times did I bite off my own nose to spite my face? How many family gatherings did I spend drinking to dull the pain? How many times did I push people away? How many times did I cry alone for what I didn’t have?
I’ve read a lot lately about people writing their own obituaries. What would mine say? What would yours say? Is it a life wasted, or a life cherished?
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