My grandmother Goldie lived to 102. My grandfather Louis died at 52. The math was easy. My dad figured he had a 50% chance of a very long life. Glass half full or half empty? Dad chose half empty and lived in fear of dying young. In retrospect, this had its advantages.
He feared dying and feared the death of his wife (my mom, who had an operable brain tumor at age 30, heart disease, and a host of other ailments). My dad responded to that fear by creating an extraordinary life of traveling, attending the opera and symphony, sailing, entertaining, maintaining strong social connections, collecting art, and prioritizing summer camp and good schools for us kids. He had the means to a privileged life and took care of his health through good nutrition, regular exercise, excellent medical care, and a commitment to health.
As his birthday passed each year, as well as on our birthdays, he would sigh deeply and, with tears in his eyes and gratitude in his heart, reflect on how he never expected to live this long. Even so, he had long-term care insurance policies for both him and my mom. His advance directive was: Keep alive at all costs.
I’m grateful for my dad’s longevity and the opportunities it gave us. His longevity taught me the power of reflection and recognition. With his friends gone and my mom in skilled nursing, Dad had time for much contemplation. In his mid-90s, he apologized for some very hurtful decisions that he and my mom made. Better late than never isn’t a joke. His confession will positively ripple through me the rest of my life.
His life also taught me to adapt. Dad wanted to control everything! At 94, he handed over daily financial responsibilities. At 96, he allowed us to hire a wonderful caregiver, Noi. For years, he fought having help beyond cleaning — control and tightly guarded privacy. A month after Noi started, my dad’s mantra became, “This is paradise!” He even adapted to giving up his car keys. Living separately from my mom was the only thing he couldn’t reconcile.
“The golden years, they aren’t so golden,” my dad began saying at 90. I think I get it, Dad — the friends lost, the control lost, the aches and pains gained, the confusion and stress of dementia, and the worry about Mom. Longevity, though, gave Dad time to know his grandchildren as adults and to see great-grandchildren born.
Longevity gave Dad time to open his heart wide, to embrace being loved and loving, to share stories I might otherwise have missed, and to see us in ways he never had before.
Despite his fears of dying young, Dad’s glass overflowed.
Robert George Weiss died this past June 14th at age 97. He leaves a legacy of longevity.
The rest is up to me.
