Arguments and Failed Attempts to Fly

January 24, 2025

Two years ago today, my dad died.

The days that followed I was reeling with anger and approximately 37 other indescribable feelings and traits, such that I voluntarily went back to work after only two days of bereavement leave mostly just for something else to pay attention to, shocking my coworkers with my unexpectedly early return and with occasional remarks like “yeah, I’d have taken care of that sooner but my stupid dad had to go and die”, leading to me getting self-conscious that I wasn’t “performing grief” correctly.

In the time since, as events personal and global unfolded, there was getting used to that he wasn’t around anymore to offer whatever probably-terrible take he had about things. I might think to remark to him about something, perhaps to gripe about the Nationals (in fact, my very last text message to him was bemoaning that Trea Turner went to the Phillies), and then remember. That time is over. Other than standing over his grave and saying “so anyway Juan Soto went to the Yankees because of course he did”.

Among all that, one thought has kept coming back to me. I’ve thought back, over all the years of my life, all the things he’d ever said he wanted to do someday. Much of it he gave up on long ago. Others he would still have liked but circumstances caused him to give up much hope of it.

But now. None of it would ever happen. He reached his end.

Along with the huge loss itself, that a major piece of life is suddenly just… not there anymore, comes that even greater awareness of mortality.

So much he had wanted to do, and so little of it ever happened. Of what I knew about anyway.

How much can any of us hope to accomplish all we hope to someday, regardless of circumstances or feasibility?

The common saying is that one must “live life to the fullest”. Which is of course a bullshit sentiment. And the ghosts agree.

My dad did not “live life to the fullest” or “cherish every moment” or “make every day count”, whatever the hell any of that even means. He had goals over the years, and some of them he achieved, many he did not. What was he doing instead? Nothing special. Just… life. Daily routine, just like everyone else. But it’s one often filled with guilt and shame, because it’s just routine, nothing special. We create impossible standards for a Life Well Lived, which is a surefire way to make sure no one feels they’ve amounted to anything.

Even so, we like to feel like there’s some purpose to our lives, that our brief time in this universe made some sort of difference. Beyond what’s already necessarily the case anyway, like all of our interactions with others throughout that life, all the biological and chemical processes our bodies contained and performed.

We feel like there has to be more. We go about our lives and run into trouble and obstacles. Our relationships sour. Our dreams go unfulfilled or, if they are fulfilled, aren’t as great as we thought. There must be something better. There must be a reason. Because if not, why bother with anything? If whatever hard won joy or success is so fleeting or ultimately overrated?

Kind of makes you want to just stay in bed all day eating cookies.

Maybe the surest way to waste one’s life is to worry about wasting it.

I don’t want to say “it’s the little things that matter” or anything to that effect, since that’s ridiculous, too. As is any nonsense about being “happy”. Maybe it’s just a matter of claiming the good stuff when and where you can, since life, for all its precious brevity, will make even that a challenge.

My dad did often list a handful of things he was always proud of, including:

1. He was able to quit smoking.

2. He correctly guessed that it was Maggie who shot Mr. Burns.

I guess it’s something.