Don’t miss the exit.
That was the last bit of advice I got as I headed off to visit my great-grandmother.
I had spent plenty of time with her over the years. But this was the first time I was visiting her on my own.
The warning was prudent.
My great-grandmother’s assisted living facility was not far from the highway. But the exit that led to it was tucked in the back of a highway rest stop.
I had to drive past the service center and the gas pumps to find it, but fortunately, I did so without incident. Moments later, I had parked and made it to my great-grandmother’s room.
My great-grandmother was 96 years old. Macular degeneration had rendered her nearly blind, and dementia had clouded her mind.
I resolved to be patient and not to get flustered if I got called by my father’s name. Mostly, I reminded myself not to expect too much.
Yet, to my surprise, my great-grandmother was in great spirits. We dove into a lively discussion. And for a few moments, it seemed like the old days.
But then, the conversation hit a brief respite. And after that pause, my great-grandmother seemed lost.
She started to rehash what we had already discussed. For she had already forgotten that we’d even talked about it.
I pivoted, trying to keep the discussion free of pauses to avoid repeating myself. But this was exhausting work, and my energy eventually dwindled.
At that point, I knew it was time to leave. I gave my great-grandmother a hug and headed for the door.
More than a year later, she passed away. I had just started a new job halfway across the country, and I couldn’t make the funeral.
I felt a bit guilty. But I wasn’t overwhelmed by that sensation.
For I knew I’d closed the chapter with my great-grandmother gracefully. And that mattered as much to me as anything.
Humanity is full of vices. Some are oft-discussed, while others fly under the radar.
The recency effect generally falls into that second category.
This concept states that we’re more likely to remember the most recent item in a series than the ones before it.
That late addition to the grocery list is the first one that comes to mind as we walk in the store doors. That lesson from last week is likely to be the one we nail on the upcoming midterm.
And that last bit of time we spend with a loved one is what sticks with us for years.
This makes sense. The everlasting emptiness of death is without comparison. So is the enduring power of memory. When the two converge, we want to engineer the encounter to meet our needs.
Yet, such an approach is far from sensible.
So much surrounding departures is beyond our control. But we try and put our stamp on the proceedings anyway.
I am no different. I had an inkling that my visit with my great-grandmother would likely be my last. This realization impacted my approach to the entire experience.
That experience went as well as could be expected. While I miss my great-grandmother, I’m at peace with the way our time together on this earth ended. The recency effect hasn’t left me saddled with regret.
That is not always the case.
Not long after my great-grandmother passed, my thoughts turned to another beloved relative — one of my grandfathers.
I’ve written about this grandfather before on Words of the West, reflecting on his impact on my life. While he wasn’t related to my great-grandmother — they were on different sides of the family tree — he was also getting up there in years, and I worried about what might come next.
My grandfather had survived two heart attacks and a triple bypass in his life. He had served in the United States Navy in World War II and lived to tell the tale. Growing up, I started to believe that he was invincible.
But now, his mortality seemed evident.
So, I took nothing for granted. Whenever I called my grandfather to check in, I would try and coax him to tell an extra story or two from his past. And I made sure not to assume that we’d speak again.
This proved prescient — but not in the way I expected.
For my grandfather eventually suffered a stroke. And while that malady didn’t kill him, it robbed him of much of his memory and communication abilities.
At first, I struggled to process this development. It hurt me to see my grandfather as a shell of his former self. And it threw a giant wrinkle in my plan to close the chapter with him cleanly.
But as the years went by, I gradually made my peace with what had transpired. I resisted the siren song of the recency effect. I instead tried to remember what had come before.
Ultimately, my grandfather did pass away. But as I adjusted to his absence, my refreshed approach proved to be a benefit.
Instead of zeroing in on those trying final years of my grandfather’s life, I remembered him at full strength. The stories he told. The way he was. The example he set.
I’ve tried to honor that memory as much as anything.
Perhaps we can all take a page from this revised playbook.
Instead of obsessing about missing our exit, we can glance at the highway that got us there. We can consider items deeper in our pile of memories.
For these memories are the bulk of our lived experience. They’re the ones that set the tone for the integral relationships in our lives.
We tend to consider these memories as mere guideposts on the grander journey. But they should be the narrative itself.
They should become our focus.
So, let’s cast off the tiring task of closing the chapter. Let’s stop obsessing over-engineering a clean ending and instead focus on something that truly matters.
We’ll be happier and more fulfilled. And that’s the point of all this anyway.