The Risk to Remain
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
-Anaïs Nin
In every sense of what would be considered an exemplary life, my grandfather was everything and more. A family man, a service man, a hard worker, and successful in seemingly every facet.
When I was young we’d adventure through downtown Los Angeles, as a retired police officer and detective, everyone seemed to know him. Christmas at my grandparents was a spectacle of multiple generations under one roof, adorned with gifts and a roast turkey and ham. The walls of his home were covered in paintings he made, accolades in the service he earned, pictured rows of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
My grandfather’s Alzheimers was slow at first. He’d forget my name at a summer BBQ, I would cry in the bathroom. The next time he would remember, and I would try to cling so hard to that moment and tell myself everything was going to be ok. Well into his late 80’s and a talented wood maker, his little trinkets and model creations devolved from replicas of his 1932 Ford, to something no more sophisticated than what a young child could make. When my grandmother could no longer care for him, the family moved him to an Alzheimer’s home conveniently located near my mother’s house (his only daughter). She was close to visit often, and I wasn’t much further down the road to try and do the same.
In the final weeks of his life, the family seemed to visit many times. We all knew his condition was fading fast and the end was near. In those final days, the dementia had accelerated to an unbearable burden, both for all of us and for my grandfather. He would weep and cry in pain, unsure of where he was and who he was with. He would call out for past memories or people who had since passed. The pain was excruciating, and no one could console his frantic ramblings.
He passed one night in his sleep. I was there the next morning to say goodbye. I thanked him for everything he gave me. The following week a funeral happened. There were bagpipes, a motorcade of police, my cousin gave a toast with my grandfather’s favorite whiskey and dragged an amp and guitar to the stage to play taps. The stained glass windows of that ancient chapel rattled so hard I was sure they would all burst.
But the unreconciled trauma and the excruciation of those final weeks of his life bore down on me hard. I did not understand how such a beautiful life could end in so much loss and pain. I did not know how to internalize such a terrible end to such a wonderful and fully-lived life. I pushed that unexamined pain down and went on with my busy life.
A few short years later, I was expecting a child.
To see my wife transition from the outdoor backpacker and rock climber to the quiet contemplation of what coming motherhood brings was a scene too beautiful for words. Her thoughts turned inward as she scurried about preparing the nursery and tending to all the tiny details of expecting a child. I was in awe of her.
To see her settle into final-term pregnancy was a scene of equal joy and beauty. The child would kick and push when she sang or laughed. At night I would talk to her belly. Ecstatic to see the baby respond. I was adamant about playing Mark Ritcher’s interpretation of 4 Seasons by Vivaldi from my phone’s speaker. I wanted to give the baby a taste of the indescribable beauty she was in for when she came into this world.
We had reached full term, when one day my wife wasn’t feeling well. We didn’t even think to grab much before heading to hospital, only to find after an assessment by the doctor, that our expecting baby’s heart rate was elevated and her fever was high. Incredibly concerning things for such a delicate life. On the spot, the doctor’s initiated an induction, starting the process of getting this child into the world.
A picture-perfect pregnancy turned into a very serious situation in those final hours. The tension was palpable. Over the following 24 hours, doctors monitored the elevated fever and heart rate of our child, while my wife went through all the pains, struggles, and sacrifices of giving birth.
And then the child was born.
Everything rapidly stabilized after a short stint in the NICU, and we were given a perfect, healthy, miracle of a baby girl. Those first months were a blur, but my wife’s connection (and my connection) blossomed a million times over with each day.
Often I would think more and more about the risk our child faced in those final hours of birth, but also how a baby benefits the absolute most in their health and development by being fortunate enough to be born at full term, which is not always the case for so many. A beautiful pregnancy pushed right up to the point where the risk of remaining any longer would be catastrophic.
And then I started thinking of my grandfather, and those feelings I had pushed down deep just a few years prior.
That a life benefits the absolute most in benevolence, love, charity, adventure, and all the ways in which a life is valued and has worth by being fortunate enough to be a full life. To live a dynamic and complete life right up to the point of remaining any longer would be catastrophic – is then the most incredibly fortunate life possible.
And it was that that made me re-examine my thoughts on death, and reaching the end of life. And how none of us get to choose when our time to go is, and how a life cut suddenly or before its time is the absolute saddest tragedy.
A life can be so well lived, that in the end, it is pushed right up to the precipice of what is physically, mentally, and spiritually possible for a human being. That it suffers and bears great pain until the risk to remain any longer as a living being, could be so much more than the risk it takes to blossom into the freedom and beauty of whatever comes next. And, most importantly, how rare it is to be able to live right up to one’s very end.
That truth gave me healing from the pain I had suppressed, and what I couldn’t reconcile –
That my grandfather’s life was so extraordinary. And his death too, was also extraordinary.