Welcome to the World of Remorse, the world of “I could have said….” “I could have done….” “I could have been....”
What is it about aging and regret that seem to go hand in hand?
After all these decades, I’m getting pretty good at selective memory, making certain I only remember the recollections that make me look good.
I’ve become a contortionist, twisting my inner viewfinder to get the best angle for seeing any and every single action I do as prizeworthy. I’m the one standing in line for my gold star rewarding my noble behavior in past relationships. I deserve a victory parade, or at least a medal, for (almost) holding my tongue and for my overly inflated underwhelming generosity of spirit. I might have to dig deep to find these character traits. Sherlock Holmes could learn a thing or two from my machinations.
Yet sometimes, no matter how deliberately I make the effort to keep them at bay, Truth and Reality manage to creep in. Somewhat like an uninvited guest, Regret, too, pulls up a chair at my table — sans place card.
Welcome to the World of Remorse, the world of “I could have said….” “I could have done….” “I could have been....”
The hardest regrets to live with are the ones we can’t fix. We can learn from our mistakes. We can resolve to do better next time. We can adjust our temperature gauge to stay sensitive to similar realities.
And still, there are some situations that never get a do-over, no matter how well-intentioned we are. And that’s why some past realities still haunt me, including this one:
My mother-in-law was, sadly, living her worst nightmare when, following a devastating stroke, she became a bedridden resident of a nursing home.
Because we’d learned from her what loving devotion was, we, her sons and daughters-in-law, would spend as much time as possible with her. That is how I found myself at her side on that very sacred Yom Kippur that would be her last.
Singing Kol Nidre (I was pretty good, too) was quite the experience. There is something about sitting at a softly silent bedside of a loved one in an equally serene room, with an open machzor (I skipped some) and a comfortable seat. The night morphed into day. There is something to be said for prayer at one’s own pace.
We sat, we sang, we reminisced and then sang some more, and as the holiest of holy days waned, Mom was tired and wanted to rest. This was an Orthodox institution, so there was a shul on the premises, and after making certain that Mom was comfortable and settled for the evening, I thought I would continue my righteous ways and daven a full Neilah in the shul. The congregation, no doubt, needed me.
As I was walking down the corridors leading to the shul, something quite unexpected occurred. Staff were closing the doors to the hallways, cordoning off the area to ensure privacy.
A resident of the facility had passed away and, I realized, was being transferred to the “holding area” to await funeral home pickup.
As the gurney approached and passed me, I immediately stopped and took a moment to walk a few steps alongside. I then turned back toward the shul.
I must tell you that with each step I took toward the shul, I knew I was heading in the wrong direction. My legs still ache with that memory.
That person who had passed was now on their own between two worlds. My instinct was telling me what to do. Is accompanying one of His children on their final journey not a call of service? Is it not a prayer of an elevated kind? Even, and especially, on Yom Kippur?
And yet, I didn’t listen.
Twenty years is a long time and that feeling of guilt is something that still stays with me. I think you never remember the things you do — yet you always remember the things you could — and should — have done.
