Never enough time

My grandfather was in his 80's when he died.  He and my Nana had been married for over 60 years, had three children, 9 grandchildren and, at that time, 8 great-grandchildren.  He had lived a remarkable life, the extent to which I didn't appreciate until well into adulthood.  He was in charge of the displaced persons camps in Europe after WWII, he was the chief warden at San Quentin for a time, and eventually became a professor of Criminology at UC Berkley.  In his retirement he did visiting professorships in lands as far flung as Alaska and the Philippines.  He was a notorious jokester, and a master inventor.  He had a good life, a long life.  And still, after his death, my Nana sunk into a depression that 8 years later she has still not completely pulled out of.  She was never the same again.  Life without him was too foreign, too empty.  By most measures they had had what we all hope for.  And yet, for her, it was not enough.

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My father was 62 when he died.  A long life compared to some, a short life compared to others. A full life to be sure.  My father achieved success in both the business of money and the business of life.  He and my mother were married for 40 years.  They had four children and had seven living grandchildren when he died.  He got to see all of his children get married, and held most of his grandchildren.  Most, but not all of them.  He didn't live long enough to see his youngest son's first child born, just 5 months after he died.  He will never hold their second daughter, due anytime now.  For my brother, the frames that would have held photos of his father cradling his children will remain forever empty.  The plans my parents had for their lives post-retirement will never come to pass.  His absence is palpable and the hole left is still enormous.  We can be grateful for everything he gave, and everything we got, but it wasn't enough.

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Recently, my uncle died.  I was not close to him so the loss wasn't personally painful for me, but it was for others whom I love.  The last time I was on the Other Side of the Mountains, I visited my Nana.  My uncle, her oldest child and only son, had just died a few weeks before.  I was admiring her array of family photos on the windowsill and paused to look at a black and white, 8 x 10 photo of my uncle as a very little boy.  He was truly a beautiful child with jet black hair, twinkling eyes and olive skin.  My Nana noticed me looking at the photo and she said quietly, "That little boy died."  I nodded and answered gently, "I know, Nana.  I'm so sorry."  Because of course while that little boy didn't really die, but instead the grown man that he became, I knew to her that it didn't feel that way at all.  It didn't feel like her son of nearly 70 years died, but in fact that little sunny faced boy she still carried with her deep in the recesses of her heart and memory.  No matter how old he was, he still wasn't supposed to die first.  It still wasn't enough time.

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There have been a few occasions when some brave soul has ventured to ask me how long Joseph and Molly lived after they were born.  I never quite know what to say.  I know of other mothers of very premature babies who seem to know exactly how long their baby lived, to the minute.  They will say, she lived one hour and 17 minutes, and I am left wondering how they know.  Were their babies so much more alive than mine, or their deaths so much more obvious?  My sweet boy and girl came into this world quietly, barely more than a whisper.  The only audible cries were my own.  I could feel their warmth, their aliveness, but they were very, very still.  A slight movement here and there, but even that is hard to know if it was imagined or real.  Molly made one tiny sound, and I have wondered if it was her farewell- but I don't really know.  They came quietly and left the same way, so I just don't know.  

Maybe I didn't want to know.  I can remember feeling that as long they were still with me then they were still with me.  And so I held them, all day.  And for one day it felt like they were mine, and they were here, even though I know that for most of that day, they weren't.  Sometimes, when I allow myself to fantasize, I wish that we had pursued heroic measures.  Not because I believe they would have ultimately survived, but for the purely selfish reason of keeping them with me just a little longer.  A week maybe, a few days, even hours.... just a little longer.

I think the next time someone asks how long they lived I will just tell them the one thing I know to be true.  Not long enough... not nearly long enough.