What We Carry Home

A reminder that time waits for no one. Reflections on life, aging, family.

This weekend I finally made the trip over to visit my dad and brother. It had been six months since I’d last seen them, which made me feel like a bad daughter. It was longer than I meant in between visits. Long enough for the guilt to start creeping in. Life gets in the way, as it does. But with some news from my brother and an unshakeable feeling that time was pressing in, I booked the ferry.

They live on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. It’s an hour plus ferry ride away. Short, but somehow always just far enough to make the trip feel bigger than it is. I usually take the fast ferry now, since it started up a few years ago: a little more expensive, but worth it for the time saved. It shaves off about twenty minutes, but that seems to make a big difference. Normally it’s a smooth, convenient ride. Usually. This time it felt like time had a mind of its own — delays getting on getting off. Passengers needing extra help. Everything a bit slower than expected and I couldn’t help but notice the irony. Here I was, trying to make up for lost time, only to be caught in it. It felt fitting, because time was the reason I was going in the first place!

My brother had texted a few weeks ago – which is rare (we aren’t a close family) to tell me he was moving 1200km (800 miles) away for a new job. He’ll be gone for at least a year, maybe more. It’s a good move for him. He’s 43 and finally setting off on his own, spreading his wings, after years of living with our dad. So I’m happy for him, but it also means my dad will be truly alone for the first time in over 50 years, since he was 25. He’s 77 now. And it’s been just the two of them living together since my mom died 9.5 years ago. So…that’s a big change. A big adjustment. A big transition for them both. And me, too.

When I saw my dad waiting at the terminal, I had that moment we all seem to have at some point: the sudden shock of realizing your parent has aged. Not a little. A lot. I was caught off guard by how much older he looked. My brother had warned me, but still – it hit differently seeing it with my own eyes. I still picture him in his 40s — the decade he lived in my childhood memory – the version of him I still carry in my mind. A part of me assumed he’d always look that way. Don’t we all do that? Have our parents frozen in our minds at a certain time, and age? It’s strange how the mind freezes time, even when reality keeps moving.

At least he’s lost 40 pounds since last December, since deciding to quit drinking alcohol, after having a health scare and spending Christmas day in the hospital when he got really sick (with a bad cold/chest infection) and had every test under the sun done. That’s mainly how he’s lost the weight, cutting out alcohol. Even though he’s been diagnosed with congestive heart failure, too. When I told my husband that little health nugget, hubby texted me back info about congestive heart failure: that more than half of people can live longer than 5 years, depending on a variety of factors and health etc. and even 10 years or more. So it’s not necessarily a death sentence. And my Dad’s in fairly good health, all things considered. He got an exercise bike at the start of the year and has been using that regularly, and seems, in many ways, more robust than he’s been in a while.

But still, he’s aging. He knows it. I know it. He hopes these changes to his health will give him a bit more time here on earth.

It kinda suddenly hit me this trip that my dad is at or nearing the end of his life. Like, he could really go at any point. His dad passed at 79. His mom died when he was 36, of cancer (side note: the same age as I was when my mom died.)

At some point during the visit, my dad handed me a key to his house. Told me where the will was. Mentioned he was starting to get rid of things — tools, furniture, odds and ends and objects collected over decades. He wants to make things easier for us, when that time comes. He also mentioned putting my name and number in his wallet, in case anything happens to him once my brother is gone. Since, after July 28th, I’ll be the closest family member to him (besides an uncle who also lives in the same town as him, but he’s not blood related). His sisters live four hours away from where I do, which means about six hours from him. He also had some confessions. Like saying he wished he'd been around more for me and my brother growing up. But he was a geologist, and often worked away in other countries for long stretches of time. I told him it was okay. I understood he had to work.

So he's thinking of his past, his regrets. But also thinking ahead, which I’m grateful for. But it also means he’s thinking about the end. As much as I don’t want to go there, I know I need to. We all do. But we don’t really do that, do we? Because we don’t want to think about that – death. As he talked, I found myself thinking: this is a man preparing. Not in fear, but clarity. And somehow, that made me want to prepare too — not for death exactly, but for the reality of impermanence. For all that keeps changing, whether we’re ready or not.

So this whole short three day visit really got me thinking that time waits for no man. That we’re all getting older and there’s no stopping the advancement of time (and our encroaching death, as morbid as that might be to talk about).

One of the Stoic practices I return to often, and have mentioned before, that I really like is memento mori — the Latin phrase that means remember you must die. I know that sounds morbid, but it’s not meant to be. It’s meant to be life affirming. A call to the present moment. It’s a reminder to remember to live, and live fully, because our time is finite. Because the people we love won’t always be here. Because we won’t always be here. The reminder that life is impermanent. At its heart remember you must die is a reminder to live.

I’m going to get memento mori as part of my next tattoo - along with amor fati, another Latin (and Stoic) phrase I’ve talked about before which means ‘love your fate’. And I do want to remember. Especially now, as I’m heading into my 46th year in a couple months. My brother is 43. My dad is inching toward 80. And even though he’s still here walking, talking, texting, biking, I can feel the edges of goodbye starting to form.

Long story short: it was great to see my dad (and brother, very briefly, but I always seem him just briefly), but I found it quite emotional when my dad dropped me off at the ferry to go home yesterday. I got teary and felt the lump rise in my throat as we said our goodbyes and love yous. Because who knows how many more times I’ll get to see him? This past week’s visit could be the last time. I hope it won’t be, but realistically, you never know. I know better to assume there will always be a next time. I’m learning, over and over, that we don’t get to know in advance.

So here I am, sitting with time. Watching it flow forward, without any way to stop or pause it. I’m wondering what it means to age with grace, to let things go with acceptance. To keep saying I love you while I still can. Time doesn’t wait for any of us – it keeps ferrying us forward because we’re all dragged along with the current from the start to the end of our lives. Sometimes all we can do is pause for a moment and notice what – and who - we’re carrying with us.

So today I’m wondering how can we still find wonder, even as we get older?

And so I’ll ask you these things:

What wonder have you found in aging?

How are you making peace with time’s passage, and what small things are you doing to honour it – in both yourself and your loved ones? Are you resisting it, or surrendering to it?

Are you putting into practice anything to soften the transition from where you are now, to your future self?

I’d love to hear, if you feel like sharing.

And here’s some photos from my trip.

First 2 pictures: from the trip there

3rd: while on a run

4th: a crow eating food my dad and brother leave out for them

5th: waiting for the return ferry home

If this letter found you at the right time, feel free to share it with someone else who might need a little wonder today.

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With heartfelt thanks, always.
— Caitlin

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