My heart aches to read this. I wish you freedom from self-blame. But I do understand.
I grew up in cryonics. My parents signed me up when I was a child. The ache of “If only I’d brought this up sooner, better, the right way” stayed with me a very long time. For every friend and relative who shrugged these things off. Especially for the handful already in graves now. So, so young.
I used to frequently imagine how, some decades or centuries from now, I’d be standing on a colony of the Moon looking up at our ancient cradle, the Earth. Standing there with the friends & family who’d made it. And younger folk too who love us and whom we love, hearing our stories of Ancient Earth when the chances were so slim.
And then we would sing the names. Those who could only continue as whispers on our lips. The beloved who did not make it.
Even if the stars should die in heaven, Our sins can never be undone. No single death will be forgiven When fades at last the last lit sun. Then in the cold and silent black As light and matter end, We’ll have ourselves a last look back And toast an absent friend.
I am deeply sorry for your loss.
All the more aching for what might have been, had things been different.
We are all doing the best we can.
Even you, in your failures.
And me, in mine.
And it is heartbreaking, the cost of our learning. That sometimes it comes at the eternal loss of a beloved.
My heart aches to read this. I wish you freedom from self-blame. But I do understand.
I grew up in cryonics. My parents signed me up when I was a child. The ache of “If only I’d brought this up sooner, better, the right way” stayed with me a very long time. For every friend and relative who shrugged these things off. Especially for the handful already in graves now. So, so young.
I used to frequently imagine how, some decades or centuries from now, I’d be standing on a colony of the Moon looking up at our ancient cradle, the Earth. Standing there with the friends & family who’d made it. And younger folk too who love us and whom we love, hearing our stories of Ancient Earth when the chances were so slim.
And then we would sing the names. Those who could only continue as whispers on our lips. The beloved who did not make it.
I often find myself reciting Eliezer’s ode to Terry Pratchett:
I am deeply sorry for your loss.
All the more aching for what might have been, had things been different.
We are all doing the best we can.
Even you, in your failures.
And me, in mine.
And it is heartbreaking, the cost of our learning. That sometimes it comes at the eternal loss of a beloved.
But all we can ever do is our best.
Setting aside our anger and self-blame,
out of deep heartfelt caring
we shall build a kinder world.
Or we shall die trying.