Who do we lose when we lose someone?
It's more than semantics, that phrase. It's meant to convey more than just the facts of the matter and has a host of similar turns. Our loved one is no longer with us, no longer of this world. Our concerns and troubles are no longer theirs. They have passed. Left us.
They've died. And we often find ourselves reluctant to use that word for fear of its harshness. Almost as if communicating the reality somehow implies an indifference. "Died" isn't somehow respectful. Flowers die. Grass dies. People ... are lost to us.
So let's stay with that phrase. Let's say we lost someone. Who did we lose?
It's a trait of our species that we tend to focus exclusively on the facts as they currently exist, the moment before us. Likely that helped keep us alive in days gone by. Better to pay attention to predators right now and doodle on cave walls later. We see what there is to see. And in the case of losing a loved one, what we see is an older person in the last struggle.
And we focus on that struggle, keeping our loved one safe and comfortable, doing what we can to cure. And when curing is no longer possible, we work to keep them from hurting. And we look for signs. Signs that they aren't in pain. Signs that they know we're with them. Signs that it's almost time. Then, time.
The entirety of that person, all they are or ever were, becomes that body in the bed, that last vestige. But it is just a vestige. Just a moment, the final solitary moment in the total of their lives. Do we realize that? Do we remember?
Do we understand that person we love is more than the person before us right now? That person is the sum of a life of experiences, was once a child growing up in a household that perhaps is very different from the one they would later make, living a life different from the one they gave us? A young person dreaming of a wedding and a family? A new parent feeling overwhelmed by all the demands and terrified of the challenges? They were and are all of those things.
We're losing one of the people who made us, who raised us, who taught us to be what we are, either by example or warning (or perhaps a little of both). And now, in this moment, is presenting us with a final lesson – how to die.
We tend to our loved ones, try to make them comfortable and do for them what they can't any longer. But do we remember what they were when they were younger and vibrant and did for us what we couldn't do? We're losing that person, too.
And we're losing a link, a marker to our past, a connection to a time gone for both of us. "Remember when" suddenly becomes an internal dialogue, the facts on the ground suddenly no longer open to conjecture and informed by someone else's opinion. They were as they are to us. We are free to recall events as we see fit, but burdened with the reality that we are the sole proprietors of those remembrances.
Was it really hot that Christmas we got the sweatshirts from an aunt or was it just sunny that day in the picture? What was our first dog's name again? Did I really cry the first day of school?
Details of family history, if not documented, become our responsibility. Grandma was born where? Dad played what instrument in the band? Who was that uncle and where is he now?
Were our parents "good" parents? On their passing, we alone get to say, without them here to contradict or inform our opinions. That brings with it the freedom of examination but the burden of a responsibility to be honest and truthful.
We've lost someone. Went through that final struggle, were there for those final moments. We have and will continue to console ourselves with the idea that the afflictions and the pain are over now and a better place awaits. And we busy ourselves with cleaning up the details, the business portion of a life.
And, hopefully, at some point we'll remember, not just the final days of an older person but the life that person led and how it touched us. They were more, much more than those last moments.
Who do we lose when we lose someone? Or do we ever really lose them at all?