The Ends of Life

My mom died on Feb. 13, six days before her 95th birthday. I’m convinced that she passed away that day to ensure that she wouldn’t die on my birthday—that’s the kind of woman she was.

My sisters and I were lucky; not many get to live as long as we have with a parent who is still vital and active, without any signs of dementia or severe physical infirmity. But, of course, it doesn’t matter how old you are when a parent dies. The ache, the pain and the sense of irretrievable loss are all the same.

In the end, we’re all left orphans in the storm, without someone who loves us utterly unconditionally, who will take us in no matter what we’ve done wrong or how much we’ve failed.

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My mom was the last leaf on the vine: the last surviving member of her generation and my last living link to the world of my father, my aunts and uncles and my grandmother.

Now, all of my parents’ generation are gone. They’re but memories. They’re become specters, ghosts, shadows or apparitions who will flicker in our minds until, with my death and those of my sisters, cousins and sons, any personal remembrance is gone.

For we die multiple deaths. We lose our youthful vigor, our looks, our friends, our health, our lives, until we are erased altogether.

Ours is not a society that especially values what my mother stood for. Self-sacrifice. Caring. Service to others. Extended family bonds. Religion. The reason is obvious: for far too long, this society, indeed almost every society, exploited those commitments, expecting women to sacrifice their needs and aspirations for the good of the men in their family.

In today’s neoliberal society, self-sacrifice is for suckers, losers, dupes, chumps, saps and pushovers.

Yes, she worked for 55 years as an elementary schoolteacher and a school district’s reading specialist. Yes, earned a master’s degree and eventually taught in a community college. But professional accomplishment and even her own personal happiness and fulfillment were always subordinate to other priorities.

What an earlier generation described as vows or obligations or duties were in fact, we now realize, ways to take advantage of women, to deny them men’s birthright.

My mom loved to travel but did much less of that than she wanted to because she had other responsibilities: caregiving for her mother, her sister and her husband of 64 years. Their needs superseded her own. She was the last bit of glue that held our extended family together, who spent her last days writing birthday cards so that those born in March would have their birth date commemorated.

And yet, though at some level, I suspect, she felt put-upon and frustrated, she never expressed any resentment or regrets openly. We may call that false consciousness, but she genuinely believed, as the cliché would have it, in putting family and community first.

Ours is a society experiencing a crisis of caregiving that will worsen over time as we live longer, family instability increases and the number of children able or willing to take care of their parents shrinks. With its patchy, fragmented welfare system, this country is especially ill equipped to handle the largest generation of older adults in human history. Already, the long-term care industry is under intense strain. Fewer want the ill-paid, ill-treated, strenuous, exhausting, thankless job of a health-care aide.

To meet those needs, I suspect we’ll admit more “low-skilled” asylum seekers, not because we’re a nation of immigrants but because we need low-wage workers to perform this society’s most arduous and unrewarded tasks.

Even worse, I’m convinced, is the breakdown in the moral framework that makes a life of sacrifice and genuine service meaningful. Andrew Stark’s The Consolations of Mortality, “a wild romp through epistemology, metaphysics, ontology and philosophy of mind,” is a poignant and learned exploration of the meaning of death in a society that no longer believes in an afterlife.

He argues that a greatly extended life span would result in terminal boredom or nostalgia. Only by embracing our own mortality and recognizing the inevitability and finality of death can we truly appreciate life’s value and the importance of living meaningfully.

In his review of the Stark book, the Canadian novelist, magazine editor and literary critic André Forget refers to Book IX in The Iliad, in which Achilles recounts the words of his mother, Thetis—that he had a choice: “if he … continues the siege of Troy, his life will be cut short but his fame will live forever; if he returns home, he will live a long life but his name will die with him.”

His choice is—to exit in a crowning moment of glory—did bring immortality. Posterity has never forgotten his literary portrait.

But most of us exit not with a bang or blaze but a whimper, as we gradually lose our mobility, our social connections, our appetites, memories and earlier identity.

To be sure, many college donors hope by funding a scholarship or naming a building, a chair or a classroom to achieve a kind of immortality. I am certainly grateful for their largess, though their names, I fear, mean nothing to me.

Which brings to mind Shelley’s unforgettable words in his 1818 poem about Ozymandias, who, according to legend, erected a statue 57 feet high in his own honor:

Isn’t Shelley’s argument about the transience of power and the enduring legacy of art? That ruined statue in the desert, with an inscription that boasted of the ruler’s greatness, highlights the futility of such boasts of power. Time erodes all claims to glory, leaving behind only art to tell the tale of past might.

Contemporary society has extended the average life span in ways that I find stunning. But we haven’t, for most of the aged, truly postponed physical and mental decline.

You might recall Ezekiel Emanuel’s provocative 2014 essay about why he wished to die at the age of 75. He argued that living beyond that age results in a diminished quality of life, as our physical and mental abilities decline. He suggested that society and families would be better off if we let nature takes its course swiftly and promptly. His advice: don’t pursue medical interventions aimed solely at extending life, if those interventions won’t enrich your quality of life. Instead, focus on living a full, productive life in the here and now, rather than merely striving for greater longevity.

Of course, he published that essay when he was just 56 years old. We’ll see if he still holds that opinion nine years from today. His is certainly not a view I share. As long as we have our health, life is far too interesting to cast off.

In a neoliberal world focused on reputation and professional achievement, an ordinary life devoted to self-sacrifice, parenthood, kin and service to others represents a profound counternarrative. It underscores the intrinsic value of human connections, the fulfillment found in contributing to the welfare of others and the deep, often overlooked, impact of nurturing and community-building activities. These elements contribute to the social fabric and well-being of society, challenging the notion that value is only found in public accolades or career success and highlighting the richness of a life centered on compassion and communal responsibility.

William Butler Yeats’s 1927 poem “Sailing to Byzantium,” published when the poet had reached the age of 62, begins with the famous phrase “That is no country for old men.” He invokes that phrase to describe a place where the concerns and vitality of youth overshadow the wisdom and experiences of the elderly.

This line underscores the poem’s exploration of aging, the transient nature of life and the desire for a timeless realm where the soul can transcend the physical decay associated with aging. It reflects Yeats’s contemplation on the spiritual journey toward a realm of eternal art and wisdom, away from the physical world’s impermanence.

Yeats’s point, as I understand it, is that as they age people face a choice: they can “fade into husks of their former selves or learn to escape the physical limitations of old age by beautifying their souls—and, eventually, upon dying, becoming something that isn’t tied to the human body at all.”

Oscar Wilde said that people should make their lives into works of art. They should live in a way that reflects creativity, beauty and authenticity. That means curating one’s experiences, actions and interactions aesthetically and meaningfully, embracing individuality and expressing oneself fully, much like an artist does with their art. This concept champions the idea of life as an expression of art, where personal existence and the manner of living become as consciously designed and appreciated as an artistic creation.

In a post-Darwinian universe, where inherent purpose and meaning are questioned, making our lives of enduring significance involves embracing values beyond professional success. By focusing on creativity, empathy and service to others, we can craft lives that are meaningful and impactful. Living artfully means integrating beauty, thoughtfulness and kindness into our daily actions, treating relationships and community engagement as creative acts and seeking to leave a positive imprint on the world. This approach turns life itself into a work of art, celebrated for its depth, beauty and contribution to the human experience.

My mother’s life is of lasting significance because she exemplified selflessness, love and the vital role of caring and nurturing relationships within a kin group and service to a community. These qualities leave a deeper, more lasting impact than public recognition. To truly honor her memory, I need to embody her values, share stories of her kindness, celebrate the traditions she cherished and engage in acts of service and volunteerism as she had done. Only by living out the virtues she demonstrated, can I ensure her legacy of love, caring and connection endures.