Love and Death, Part 2

Love and Death, Part 2

“Love and death share a common root. The best love stories end in death, and this is no accident. Love is, of course, and remains the triumph over death, but that is not because it abolishes death but because it is itself death.”[1]

It is complicated and heartbreaking to close out a loved one’s earthly footprint after their passing. Five months after Carrie’s death, I still have a “to do” list. It is tedious and uncomfortable work that feels like I am erasing her existence. It is as if the funeral, burial, memorial, and other adjustments in the days and weeks following a death are not enough. There is also getting a loved one’s name off of all financial accounts, closing email and social media platforms, transferring retirement and other investments to beneficiaries, canceling her cell phone number, removing her name from utility bills, and the hundred other small tasks to protect against scam artists using her name to steal her identity. Working with attorneys, financial advisors, banks, and others shows how complicated the relatively simple life Carrie and I cherished had become.

I really don’t mean to complain because the seemingly endless list of tasks to be done is a product of a blessed, earthly existence. It is just that it all gets in the way of the task of grieving a beloved life lost. And of course there is nothing special about my situation as thousands go through the same hassle regularly. Regardless, many are the times I just want it to stop.

It is a unique injustice that occurs after spending extended amounts of phone time on hold waiting for the right people in the right departments to cancel a portion of your wife’s legal existence, only to hang up and return one’s attention to a home where the loved no longer abides. It is a particularly vexing type of loneliness, where one ponders whether it hurts more to be placed on extended holds on the phone or to feel one’s life is stuck in its own holding pattern of sorts. Even the light at the end of the tunnel of canceling Carrie’s legal existence seems a rather dismal destination.

Other cultures sometimes refer to a second death. The first death is one’s physical death. The second death occurs when no living person remembers your existence. And while closing out Carrie’s digital existence is not technically a second death, it sort of feels like it is – and I feel this process intentionally hastens it. There is a lingering sense of guilt that accompanies becoming the care-giver for a loved one. As Carrie became less able to make medical and other decisions for herself, it fell to me to make them for her, in consultation with her, our children, and her care-givers. And those types of decisions have a direct impact on the quality and quantity of one’s remaining days. Should chemo and/or radiation treatments be extended? Should we research possible foreign or non-traditional treatments? When, exactly, do you turn one’s care over to Hospice, knowing that changes the goal from cure to comfort? I am starkly aware of the truth in Ladislaus Boros’ statement about love and death sharing a common root. And that “love is itself death.”¹  

It is not just that the end of life care decisions for loved ones are difficult and impactful but deciding what the most loving action will be and for whom the greatest benefit will accrue is impossible to know with certainty. And the post-death decisions are similarly difficult and impactful. Love is complicated enough. Love as it morphs into its kindred spirit of death complicates life exponentially. Love, as death, crosses physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual boundaries, mixing everything together into a soup-like tangle that seems beyond human abilities to reasonably negotiate.

Among the questions I ask myself these days are: How can I most respectfully preserve Carrie’s memory? What are the most loving actions I can take for our children, our friends, and for myself? How can I best protect Carrie’s name and reputation from scammers and others with less-than-noble motivations? As of today it all feels like a balancing act between erasing and preserving my wife’s legacy. I recognize that, difficult as it seems at times, it is an act of love. An act of love in the face of death. An act that refuses to let death have the final word while acknowledging death’s presence and reality.

Why go through the cancellation process of someone we love? We do it because we must, but at least in part, we do it for love.

Author’s note: for last week and this week I am sharing thoughts that have arisen in the time leading up to and since the passing of my wife, Carrie, in June 2025. Beginning on Thanksgiving Day I will publish a daily series of Christmas Meditations that will continue through Epiphany, or January 6, 2026. Engage with me or explore contemplative spiritual direction at ghildenbrand@outlook.com.

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[1] Ladislaus Boros, The Mystery of Death, New York, Seabury Press, 1963, p. 47.