30 November 2024

Next in line

I still remember the expression of dread when Hélène's grandfather passed away about twenty years ago. It wasn't the dread of her grandfather as he was about to die, nor her own when he had crossed the River Styx. It was the anguish of Hélène's own father, as reported to me by Hélène (my first partner, during thirteen years of my life) – at least that's what I recall. After the loss of the last of his parents, he acutely felt that he was the next in line to pass away.

As time inexorably marches forward, I'm increasingly feeling that anxiety. At the end of last year, I had lost the last of my grandparents. A month ago, my mother's twin brother died. While he had severe psychological issues that heavily weighed on my mother, especially over the past three decades, were they truly his fault? How much free will do we have (Sam Harris's short opus Free Will is a great introduction to the topic)? Yes, my mother suffered – she already had had her fair share of suffering. But it was still her brother, a twin brother what's more. How not to think of one's own mortality in that case?

Sadly, my mother doesn't express her sad emotions much. I know she cried, but she doesn't express to others how she feels. I don't want to press her too much either, lest I make her more depressed. I'm left wondering whether she's thinking if her older sister and she are the "next ones in line"... As for me, I'm now just a few months away from the age my father had when he was kicked out of the house. And no, I still haven't heard back (note: the link will only work when I make that specific article public again one day – I'm cautious due to a pending lawsuit with someone unrelated). What a strange feeling...

I am trying to ensure that the passing of someone close acts as yet another impetus to live, to give that one extra hug, to not worry too much about money, to treasure my health (it feels so much out of our control at times), to keep helping others. This enumeration can be summed up in three injunctions I had encapsulated for myself about three years ago: let go (enjoy the moment); be kind; and do what makes me happy.

I have to be honest and admit that it's scary to accept that it all terminates one day, forever. How futile most things look when one thinks of the end of one's life... Sure enough, taking photos can be an enjoyable process in the moment and even allow to bring up agreeable memories in the future. But taking too many photos that one never looks at, what's the point? Sure enough, working hard for more money can help make the rest of life more pleasant. But working too hard to the point that making more money becomes the end goal with less energy and time for more enriching experiences, what's the point? Sure enough, being kind and helpful demonstrably brings inner joy. But hoping to leave a legacy is "just another word for ego", as Mike Tyson recently put it in an interview, in which he also said: "Can you really imagine someone saying I want my legacy to be this way or that? You’re dead. What audacity is that – to want people to think about me when I am gone? Who the fuck cares about me?”

At the same time, when I'm looking at the abyss straight in the eye – whether in a metaphorical sense when I'm experiencing such mental or physical pain that I think I'd rather things be over, or in a literal sense when I'm peering at the devil's throat at Iguazu – I need to remind myself that there's really nothing after that. Do I sincerely want to end it all prematurely? I might as well make the most out of this fast and glorious life. I'm next in line, no matter what.