Onwards – a reflection on passing on

The other day, I received a message telling me a former colleague of mine had died. It was not an entire surprise: my colleague had been struggling with a degenerative condition for quite some time. Still: knowing someone is seriously ill and may die is not the same as them dying. My former colleague was a vibrant, warm and highly energetic person. There were days when we worked together when he drove me crazy—stubborn and challenging, he could be very enervating. But he was also the person who would automatically detour by the bathrooms at every airport because he knew I suffer from flight nerves (which for some reason affects my bladder). He was the person who’d always stand by your side when things got tough. And now he’s gone—way too soon.

My father also died way too soon. One day, my mother came home to find him sitting dead by the kitchen table. They’d said “bye, bye” an hour or so earlier. She’d set off for her errands, he’d been on his bike to nip down to the Swedish equivalent of the off-license. And now he was dead.

For years, I kept on seeing my father everywhere. There he was, on the other side of the street, his hands clasped behind his back as he studied the traffic. Or I’d catch sight of him getting off a bus, or walking down an airport terminal. I knew it wasn’t him, of course I did. But I hoped, and for a microsecond, something inside my chest fluttered with joy.

I don’t think I’ll be seeing my colleague getting off buses or haunting airports—well, with the exception of the bar at the Chicago O’Hare Airport Hilton which he loved. Every single layover in Chicago—and we had many—we’d end up in this basement bar where he would order the wiener schnitzel and express that nowhere in the world could one get a better schnitzel than here. I sort of agree with him on that, but next time I’m in the Chicago airport I’ll probably avoid that bar, as I might cry otherwise.

Now, both my father and my colleague passed when they were more or less my age. Gulp. Obviously, neither of them was at full health, but still, it is a reminder that the number of days allotted to each and every one of us is finite.

We have a tendency to ignore that little fact. One of the more common missuses of conjunctions is when people say “IF I die” rather than “WHEN I die”. A lawyer friend of mine spends a lot of time reminding people there is no if about it—immortality is, dear peeps, not an option for us. And thank God for that: imagine living and living and living and being generally hated by the younger generations for living and living and living and thereby using up resources they need. Besides, wouldn’t there be a point at which ennui would set in? Especially if you’re the only immortal around and all your friends and family have long since passed on.

Life is precious because it is finite. We are not guaranteed a lifespan, we cannot take it for granted that we will be around in two years or ten years or even tomorrow, because life does happen—well, death does happen. We all know this—should we choose to think about it—but mostly we prefer to live in the IF bubble. This is probably because it is very hard to conceive of a world where life goes on without us. And what happens to what is unique to the self when we pass? Does all that knowledge, all those characteristic traits just go up in smoke? Well, we don’t know, do we, and that, I think, is why we prefer the IF.

Some of you will tell me you do know—or rather, believe. Some paint pictures of the soul going on to live again and again, with the purpose of becoming wiser and better with each life. Some will paint an everlasting life surrounded by angels and fluffy clouds. Others say the afterlife is about resting in the presence of God. Thing is, all of the above have to be taken on trust—and trusting is not always easy.

My colleague died way too young. For years, his condition had stopped him from doing the things he truly loved. I am therefore hoping that he is somewhere up there in the infinite blue of the skies, that he is freed of pain and frustration and instead can cast off to sail through eternity. He’d like that—even if he’d prefer a motorboat with a huge rumbling engine. Sorry F: no engines allowed.

My father-in-law found the notion of heaven somewhat risible. He rather liked the “earth to earth” approach and had as his aspiration to return as a harebell or two. So every time I see a harebell, I think of him, which, in effect, means he lingers on.

My father didn’t believe in the afterlife. He saw death as a final full stop. And maybe it is—or maybe it isn’t. After all, some parts of my father still live on: in me, in his grandchildren, in his great-grandchildren. There’s a stool he once painted that stands in our hall, the pictures he painted decorate our walls, and now and then I still see him, hands clasped behind his back as he watches us all and smiles.

We are born, we live, we die. We can’t save time in a bottle to expand our given years. What we can do is be grateful for the days we have and the people we love. Some leave huge marks on this world, most of us flit by with little ripples no more. But a ripple isn’t too bad, is it?