Life's stories exist around the kitchen table

Conversations about passing years and mortality. Sometimes, that’s where the kitchen table talk drifts to, especially as I’ve grown older. Not morbid in nature but with a soft acceptance that, as we converse about others, others will speak about us in the same manner in years to come.

That’s where I found myself last week in a conversation about lives and deaths. I had just brought my Mom back to her house after meeting a cousin and her husband for lunch. In fact, we all ended up back at Mom’s. Settled in for a brief visit, the talk turned to family and how old different people are. Kids and kids of kids. Memories from when we were kids. Weddings, births and then, inevitably, funerals and deaths. 

How long it’s been since people have passed, with each of us taking turns saying things like, “I can’t believe it’s been that long already."

Sitting around that table, I believe we each silently thought about the fact that we are all growing older. We are closer to the finish line than the start.

 

My Mom, at 82, is in generally good health but her body is slowing and aging. She has challenges with her eyesight, a touch of rheumatoid arthritis. It’s robbed her of some of her independence but her mind is clear and sharp, and she’s determined to do as much in her own as she can. 

Me, at 60, is also coping with an aging body. Knees that will need replacing, kidney stones that need to go away. High blood pressure — under control — but something that still requires monitoring. My cousin's husband is quiet about anything he’s experiencing because his focus is on his wife, my cousin. She’s 61 and battling Stage 4 cancer. A fighter — a very strong and determined fighter — she’s undergoing treatment and some of it has resulted in very positive news. But it’s still a battle and one she’s determined to win.

And so we thought about ourselves and we thought about each other. And we talked about ourselves and we questioned each other. And we gave love to ourselves and love to each other by talking about our challenges. 

Later in the day, when I returned home, I thought about my own life and my own death. The death of My Favourite Husband (MFH) has shaped how I live. I’m determined to live every moment, squeeze every drop out of life. I say yes to most adventures but I am now a better listener when my mind and body tell me no is the right answer. There’s no scorecard, no rush.

There was an instance — not long after he died — that the pain in my heart and mind was seemingly unbearable and I thought about dying. I thought about how I could make that happen. But the thought was fleeting. The truth is that MFH fought hard to live. He did everything his medical team told him to in order to stay on the transplant list. His purpose and conviction — his single goal and all of his energy — went into living. Who am I to not live that way, focused on life and not waiting to die? And so I live, fully and completely.

Death is also part of the deal, though. You’re born, you die. And, if you’re blessed enough to live a long life, you have time to think about and prepare for the inevitable. 

I’ve thought about the fact that I’m OK with dying. I’d prefer it not to be for awhile but I’ve had a long and interesting life. I’ve seen and done so many more things than I ever thought I would see or do. I still have more, so much more, but if the clock stops here, now, I’m good. So good. 

I think there’s something to be said for finding peace and making friends with my own mortality. It’s not to say I wouldn’t fight to stave it off and claim me. I absolutely would. It’s more that I know it will happen eventually. 

At one point in our kitchen table conversation, my Mom brought out a family tree book. Painstakingly noted are all of the undeniable dates of each member. Births, marriages, deaths. Dates that spurred conversation about different people, different remembering. What it doesn’t tell is the story about each family member, who they are, what they’ve done, how they live or have lived. For that it’s up to each of us to share and remember with each other.

We all have a story share. It’s what lays between the birth date and the death date. It’s all about the stories we share around the kitchen table.