Did I Love Enough?
Many people ask me about regrets.
“What do people say they regret the most at the end of their lives?”
I have seen this question posed numerous times. I have read articles that people have written about them. I have read all the slogans such as “No one regretted not working more or spending more time at the office.
(BTW: not true)
But the main thing I would hear over the years was, did I love enough?
We all spend much of our lives thinking we truly love someone or something. We love our parents, our kids, our extended family, friends, co-workers, our pets. Maybe some material things as well.
They are part of our lives and we grieve when they are gone. That alone shows us how much we cared.
But when patients would pose that question to me, we would talk about what love really means. Some thought love meant taking care of all the daily tasks of every day life. Making sure kids have clean clothes, healthy meals, taught to stay safe, be a good steward of the world, earn a good allowance and a have good work ethic, be gracious, be kind. Some felt going to church and imbuing loved ones with a sense of faith was love. Others thought providing a beautiful home and going on vacations and creating memories was love. Others thought being a good provider to their spouse was love.
And some thought love was teaching hard lessons, tough love one might say.
But imagine lying there on a hospital bed in your home, with your life almost at the end, and ask yourself that question; did I love enough.
I will tell you some things that I have witnessed and heard over the many years seeing patients at the end of life.
The first is, no one thinks they really loved enough. And they sometimes feel it’s too late at the end to even tell those they truly love, I love you. They didn’t say it a lot during the busy years of endless work hours, school activities, endless errands, endless every day tasks. “They know I love them” is a common theme, but I also spend an inordinate amount of time with “those they loved” who saw things much, much differently.
Most people die the way they lived. So if they were not warm and fuzzy or demonstrative with their affections, they will most likely remain that way. But inside, they know.
So, how do you measure love? How do you know that those whom you truly love with all of your heart really feel that love?
Here is what bereaved family members have told me, and there is a similar pattern.
“Mom always loved my brother more.”
“Dad never hugged me.”
“They just bought me presents.”
“No one ever wrote to me when I was sad.”
“Mom thought that I needed to learn life lessons to be strong and wasn’t always there for me. And I couldn’t ask for help.”
“I never heard from my dear Aunt after I grew up. Not even a birthday card. We were close when I was little, but then she just forgot about me.”
“I never heard my dad say I love you after I was an adult.”
“I still won’t be free from my mom’s criticism even after her death.”
“We weren’t a hugging family.”
The list goes on, but these are recurring themes I have heard over and over.
Has that made me love more? Maybe. But I’m only human and I make mistakes. It’s still a work in progress, as it should be. As life is.
So, ponder the question of love in your own life. Ask yourself this as you go through life, not just at the end. You’ll miss too much. And those you leave behind will never really know. And that’s a terrible legacy honestly.
So, I will leave you with a true story of a patient and her adult daughter.
Anne was dying and her husband was quite ill himself, so they summoned their daughter Elise to come and help them.
She took a leave from her job as a college professor and returned home to Cambridge MA from California. She was a tiny woman who was married, but didn’t have children. Her brother had a falling out with the parents, and wouldn’t pitch in to help except to send money. Anne herself had a distant but cordial relationship with them as well. She told me about it through tears.
Her mom was demanding and often critical while her dad was sweet but always stayed quiet. They lived in a very nice home and Anne was provided a good life and a good education at private schools and an Ivy college education. She went on to do research and was well published in her field. A success in every way. She was also an artist, even though her parents thought this frivolous.
Anne was exhausted. Her parents expected so much from her. She called me often and I went to the home more than I usually do. So, I got to know them quite well.
The mom was a classical pianist; the dad was a retired Harvard professor. They kept a lot to themselves, but friends did stop over. They were both in their late 80’s, and many of their friends and colleagues had either retired and moved closer to family or had died. It’s sometimes lonely being old. They weren’t religious and didn’t belong to any church or synagogue. So really Elise was the sole caregiver. And she was exhausted.
Finally, Anne’s health took a turn for the worse and she had only a few days left. I came to the home after a frantic call from Elise.
The mom summoned me into the bedroom and asked me to close the door. She then told me to open a closet and to look inside. I opened it and it was packed to the brim with plastic bins filled with papers and other things.
“Show this to Elise after I die, but not before. Please, I beg of you.” she said. “I have always followed her life. I kept every publication, all her old artwork, some of her favorite clothes and books. When I missed her, instead of calling her, I would open the closet to feel closer. I regret not openly loving her more. I didn’t love enough.”
Elise had stepped out of the home after I arrived so that she could get a break. So she didn’t hear any of this. Anne’s husband came in and sat by her chair holding her hand. Anne fell asleep and never woke up. Elise returned home and sat there with her until she died. She and her dad sat stoic, not quite believing she was gone.
After we made arrangements with the funeral home and Anne’s body was taken, I shared with Elise what her mom had told me. Elise opened the doors and started pulling out bin after bin. As she went through everything, she kept saying, “she loved me, she really loved me.” And her stoicism melted into sobs.
This has stayed with me many, many years, and this is why my patients are my best and most generous teachers.
So, don’t store your love away. Share it freely. Send the card. Write the letter. Bake a cake. Call just to say “Hey, you make me proud.” Put away the criticism for a day. Be openly in awe of talents. Hang the art even if it’s not your taste or style. Text someone right now and say you love them or are thinking of them. (NO emoji’s, use WORDS)
Love is harder than we think it is. It really is hard work. But it’s work we will never regret.
“It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads, which sew people together through the years.” ~ Simone Signoret