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Tom had never let Jake down. Even as a seven-year-old, three years younger than Jake, Tom would haul Jake on his back.
Jake, frail with cerebral palsy, would wrap his thin arms around Tom’s surprisingly small shoulders, digging his chin into the back of Tom's neck, trusting he wouldn't fall.
Tom’s small feet would tentatively search the dusty cow paths of their Wisconsin dairy farm, avoiding half-exposed rocks and sun-baked cow pies.
This unspoken understanding between them, a simple recognition of Jake’s needs, had dwindled over the years.
Forty years later, Jake realized they probably didn’t know each other well at all.
“I’m going to walk up the ravine a little ways,” Jan, Jake's wife, announced, breaking his thoughts.
She emerged from a thicket, carrying a gnarled walking stick. "Look what I found. Just the right size."
“I’ll stay here,” Jake answered, ignoring the walking stick. His mind was still on Tom. He sat on the cedar bench, admiring the handiwork of Tom’s son and son-in-law. It was a bit too high, he thought, and too shallow. The scent of cedar hung heavy, overpowering the smells of early fall.
Jake laid full length on the narrow bench, looking up at the leaves against the hazy blue sky. Tom was close by. Just two months before, Tom’s wife, Barb, had sprinkled his ashes in the clearing.
Dead at 47. Jake repeated the words. Tom had fought a brain tumor for 12 months. Toward the end, he was frail, walking with an unsteady gait that betrayed his pretense of balance, much like Jake’s unsteady steps.
Tom had been a quiet man, known mostly by his immediate family. Jake and Tom could have talked about the things they began to have in common once Tom had cancer: the step-by-step uncertainty of walking from here to there, the public attention, the need to assert a clear mind.
But then there was the need to get things done. The sadness. The anger. The fear. The resignation. Deciding to take your own life to save the family further pain and financial distress.
No. That would have been too much to expect. The sibling rivalry, the tension, the increased attention Jake received as a child due to his disability — each drove wedges between them that they never tried to remove.
Jan had recognized the problem years before, but Jake hadn’t done anything. And Tom, in facing death, had gone far beyond where Jake was in his spiritual journey. Was it Jake’s place to intrude?
Jake accepted but didn't understand. He was disappointed yet filled with admiration for Tom. He felt guilty and complacent.
“You’ll drift apart, it’s true, but you’ll be out in the open, part of everything alive again.” - Philip Pullman
“Jake! Jake!” Jan called urgently.
Jake tried to sit up but instead rolled off the narrow bench with a thump, turning his body downhill to break the impact. He jammed his ribs with his own elbow.
“What do you want?” Jake called out angrily, disturbed by Jan’s call, concerned about his ribs. He scrambled to pick himself up, realizing he wasn't hurt.
“There you are!” Jan said, suddenly appearing from the thicket.
“Why did you call?” Jake growled.
“I thought I was lost. What happened?”
“I thought you were in trouble, and then I fell off the bench,” Jake said more calmly, needing sympathy.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
She knew. There was no need for details.
“You know, a walking stick is a good idea,” Jan was saying as Jake gathered his crutches. “I’m going to keep it.”
They ducked under a fallen tree and proceeded up the cow path — Jake with his Canadian crutches, Jan with her walking stick.
“You feel bad?” Jan again asked, recognizing Jake’s melancholy as they approached the steepest part of the hill back to their car.
“I’m OK.”
“As a well spent day brings happy sleep, so life well used brings happy death.” - Leonardo da Vinci
The hill seemed steeper going up. They automatically switched to their mode for difficult terrain: He held her slender shoulder while she used his left crutch. This time, she poked the walking stick ahead and gradually pulled them, in tandem, up the hill.
Add 34 years to Jake’s timeline. At 81, he now realizes Tom had a sense of fulfillment because he lived a life he wanted to live. He had been authentic and knew when to let go because he had grown, in just 47 years, to be whole. Tom had learned how to face death.
Jake’s takeaway tip: Prepare yourself to die fulfilled by living a life that reflects your true self.
Here’s to mature-adult living!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Graying”
Weekly Stories About Aging Well
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I remember the fear I harbored as a teenager, knowing that my parents would die someday and leave me alone to fend for myself – and knowing, at that point in my life, I was not prepared to
adequately manage my life all by myself.
As a farm kid, I grew up with life cycles and changing seasons. But, as my grandparents and parents passed away, I realized life was indeed temporary.
At 81, I now know that death often brings a new-found loneliness to those left behind. It’s a time when community, family and intergenerational relationships become critical in overcoming isolation.
I don’t care much about whether there’s an afterlife or not – and I’m surprised how important the thought of an afterlife has become through the ages. It’s nice as a gift but not necessary. And we may eventually discover what we envision now as an afterlife has many more dimensions that we currently can’t comprehend because of our myopia.
What is more important to me right now is the non-material stuff (that goes beyond artificial intelligence) I can leave behind after I’m gone.
And, if I have a choice, I don’t want to suffer unnecessarily.
* How has your view of death changed since you were a child?