Part of me resented when my 68-year-old mom mentioned offhandedly that she was shopping for what she plans to be her final computer. “Laptops tend to last me 10 years, and I think that’s about what I have left,” she stated matter-of-factly as she wiped down my toddler’s highchair after a family dinner. I turned away from the soapy tub of dishes in the sink to give her my best “you’ve got to be kidding me” stare, but she didn’t notice. She just kept scrubbing at the crusted tray, giving it a better effort than it’s received since the last time she joined us for a meal.
I can begrudgingly agree that my mom may be right. My maternal grandparents died at 81 and 85 after about 4 or 5 years of precipitous decline, my grandmother with Alzheimer’s and my grandfather due to multiple strokes. Combine that family history with the fact that my parents have indicated they don’t plan to relentlessly pursue medical attention once they reach a certain point and, yes, the laptop she’s eyeing could very well be the end of her computer road. While I both respect and understand my parents’ medical decisions, there’s still something jarring about the finality of “one last computer.”
A couple of years ago, someone recommended I read Nikki Erlick’s novel The Measure (William Morrow), which tells the story of a society where everyone wakes up one day to find a box on their doorstep containing information about how many years of life they have left. The characters get to choose whether or not they open the box, which I only know from reading the book’s teaser; not only would I not want to know my number of remaining years if I were a character in this novel, but I also don’t even want to read a book in which this is the plot line. Knowledge of endings makes me squeamish.
Let’s put it this way: When my 18-month-old recently projectile vomited the contents of his dinner all over the kitchen, I felt relieved because it meant no bedtime bottle, thus abruptly terminating a ritual I had been dreading ending for months. I adore cuddling with my freshly bathed son as he guzzles warm milk while stroking my hand. Did I want this phase to end? No. Did I want to be aware of its conclusion as it was happening? Absolutely not. The stomach bug ushered in a bottle-free bedtime routine without my awareness of babyhood slipping away.
“What do we do with the fact that it’s painful to pay attention, but it’s equally painful not to?”
I similarly resist knowledge of my parents’ life expectancy. Yes, I know they are going to die, and I would prefer not to know the specifics, such as that my mom doesn’t plan on lasting much longer than the pile of metal and plastic on which she plays solitaire.
On the other hand, I do see how awareness of endings can be a gift. It’s the reason why the practice of meditating on death, memento mori, has spanned the existence of Christianity. “Remember, you must die,” the Latin phrase tells us. My mom won’t have her computer forever, and I won’t have my mom forever. And for that matter, none of us are going to have anything forever. People die and so do relationships and so do chapters of life and so do dreams. It does us well to remember that nothing is permanent and live accordingly.
I’m currently inhabiting a unique slice of time, one in which both my parents and my children are active, joyful forces in my life. People talk about the sandwich generation, referring to middle-aged adults who are squeezed emotionally and financially as they simultaneously care for their children and their aging parents, but that’s not what I’m referring to. Although I know it is to come, I’m still receiving far more from my mom and dad than I give to them. Not only does my dad fix our broken door knobs and my mom replace the worn-out Velcro on my kids’ shoes, but I also get to watch my children light up as they see my parents’ faces appear in the back door window, become completely enthralled by the stories they tell, and squeal with delight during games of school, veterinary office, and camping trip.
The goodness of these moments can be staggering, even more so because I know how fleeting they are. Sometimes, when I’m with all of them, I can hardly handle the sheer magnitude of emotion, not only because of the beauty of the experience itself but also because I know we only have so many more of these moments together.
I’m reminded of the rendition of Psalm 34—“taste and see the goodness of the Lord”—that my childhood parish sometimes played as a communion hymn and how it always struck me as odd that the composer chose such a melancholic melody for what I considered to be an uplifting message. Now I understand it more. I think you reach a certain point of life, and if you’re honestly considering reality, you can no longer easily separate the goodness of the Lord from some degree of melancholy. Where there is love, there will be loss. Where there is goodness, there will be pain.
This knowledge often generates a lot of trite life advice: Don’t sweat the small stuff. Make every moment count. But you know what is not cliché? Considering that my mom’s remaining lifespan is likely that of a computer. Everything, all of it, the good and the bad, is temporary. It’s terrifying to think about, but it’s also terrifying to consider the alternative, which is getting to the end of a life or a stage without having fully lived it.
What do we do with the fact that it’s painful to pay attention, but it’s equally painful not to? Aristotle’s concept of the Golden Mean, the desirable middle between two extremes, seems useful here. Between cowardice and rashness lies courage; between indecisiveness and impulsiveness lies self-control. Between pervasive existential anxiety and blinding ourselves to our finitude lies awareness of the present moment’s abundance.
We achieve the golden mean when we humble ourselves to confront our tendency to either or both extremes. I must acknowledge how I get caught up in the noise and chatter of things that don’t matter, and I also must notice when I slip into thought patterns driven by fear and anticipatory grief. I’m a human, so I’m going to traverse the spectrum, but I can’t let myself stop permanently—to pitch a tent—on either end.
So here is what I do: I think about my mom and her last computer. I feel my throat constrict, and I experience the dread of imagining life without her. Then I close my laptop, call her on the phone, and say, “Want to meet us at the park?”
This article also appears in the May 2025 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 90, No. 5, pages 30-35). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
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