I spent the last week in Florida visiting my wife’s grandmother, who is slowly passing away. She is still full of life, but her organs are failing.
Living in New York, I rarely spend time with people over 50. Most of the people around me are my age, unless I am at jiu jitsu rolling with some of the dads. I have not witnessed bodies failing like this in a long time. Even at their community pool, talking with neighbors and friends, almost everyone had some kind of ailment. Knees. Backs. Legs that do not work like they used to. I felt blessed to have my abilities.
I would like to say I learned something profound, but the only clear takeaway is this: stay active while you still can.
If anything, it made me a little afraid. Life moves fast. Faster than you think. One day you are young and strong, and the next you are navigating limitations you never imagined.
But alongside that fear, I found comfort. Watching the way my wife’s grandmother is handling her situation has been grounding. To stare death in the face and meet it with dignity is no easy feat, and she is doing exactly that. She is happy with her life. She has no regrets.
Of all the advice she has given us over the years, the thing that stood out most this week was not her words. It was her actions. She is enjoying every second she has left. She tolerates the pain. She makes light of it. She laughs. She chooses presence over despair.
There is something powerful about that.
Maybe the lesson is not just to stay active. Maybe it is to live in a way that allows you to reach the end without regret. To be able to say you lived fully. And then, when the time comes, to leave with grace.
It was a slow week. We spent most of our time playing marbles, which is one of Grandma’s favorite games.
The few times I went for a walk, I brought my camera with me. I had no real aim other than to see where I was and what it felt like. No project. No outcome. Just paying attention.
I realized I struggle with doing nothing more than I thought I would. My childhood was spent outdoors, always moving, or building things. I have a hard time being inside for long stretches of time. Stillness feels unfamiliar.
But it felt good to practice, even a little. To take photos without intention. To let them exist the way my journaling does. Not for an audience. Not for a client. Just as a quiet record of being there.
