Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 8.38

Do Panthea or Fergamus now sit by the tomb of Verus? Do Chaurias or Diotimus sit by the tomb of Hadrianus? That would be ridiculous.

Well, suppose they did sit there, would the dead be conscious of it? And if the dead were conscious, would they be pleased? And if they were pleased, would that make them immortal?

Was it not in the order of destiny that these persons too should first become old women and old men and then die? What then would those do after these were dead?

All this is foul smell and blood in a bag.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 8 (tr Long)

I saw much of death and dying when I was young, and I was often puzzled by the way we try to venerate those who have passed away. I was not so cynical as to assume any sinister motives, but I did wonder why we so often pay more attention to people when they are dead than when they were alive. Was the benefit intended for them, or was it a way to assist ourselves with the acceptance of loss?

At times it would even make me angry. I felt resentful when dozens of people attended my great-grandmother’s funeral, even as she had sat alone so many times in the last years of her life. I had to temper my frustration when many hundreds praised a departed friend, even as she had taken her own life because she felt so lonely.

My anger was hardly justified, of course, and it said more about my own weakness than that of others. Yet when my head was calmer I still asked myself if honoring the departed was a way that we managed our own anxiety about death, and memorializing them was a way to try and sidestep our inevitable mortality.

Marcus Aurelius asks an uncomfortable but necessary question. Do the dead gain any comfort from all our efforts? Does it make them happy to be remembered? Can our devotion make them immortal? If they somehow require this, what will happen after we too are gone?

The Stoics like to remind us that death is not an evil, but a necessary part of Nature. I should not attempt to make something right that isn’t wrong to begin with, and so I am best served by living well instead of trying to conquer dying. Let me certainly feel sadness for a loss, while also understanding that living forever as we are now is not something we are made to do.

In my own thinking, all of this reminds me to show my love for others while they are here, and not wait until they are gone.

A few years back, I sat down with a fellow who had done much to help me make it through some tough times, and had become something of an informal counselor to me. He apologized that he had been unable to be around more often, but explained that his health made it very difficult for him. I pestered him to tell me more, and he quite calmly said that he was dying of cancer, and that doctors had given him another month or two.

I expressed my deep sadness and regret to him, but he suggested that none of that was necessary. He added that he didn’t want an obituary, or a wake, or a funeral, or any sort of gravesite.

“After my life is lived, I don’t want anyone dwelling on it. It’ll hardly matter then!” He gave off a hearty chuckle.

So I try to remember him as I hope he would have wanted, not with a sense of grief, but in ways that can now help me to live well through his example. I was certain to later make the exact same request of my own family, and I was grateful that they understood completely. I try to remember that I can’t take it with me, and that there is no need to try and change anything after the fact. 

Written in 4/2008