What Else is New?
Read or listen to a story about love, loss, and a question we keep asking—especially to ourselves. Just notice what your heart has to say as mine meets yours—driving down the road.
Notice what it’s like to read this to yourself, silently or out loud. Or, sit back and listen to my words—and those arising inside yourself.
Just in case you’re not listening, or I forgot to say it—I’ll ask it again: What else is new?
Funny question. I ask it to others all the time—but now I ask myself. It may be the hardest question of all. It brings up things I need to talk about but I’m afraid to say—or even ask.
It used to give me comfort when I heard that a married couple passed away close to one another. I would think, how sweet that they stayed together until the end, not wanting to go on alone—without each other.
As I approach my time, I don't feel that way anymore. Don’t worry, I’m not terminally ill. But we’re all dying. It’s just part of life.
Quality is more important than quantity—for both me and my dear wife.
I know it would be hard, but if I pass first, I wouldn’t want her to give up living. And I wouldn’t want to, either, if she goes before me
But my biggest fear is that one of us would be alone, unable to speak, to let others know we need help. Or, people in the know not hearing us—and not responding, even if they do.
I know that life has a beginning and an end that’s hard to predict, but I believe we should be given a choice about the latter if our bodies and minds stop working. I don’t want to live forever—or just wait for myself or someone else to die.
I need to keep living and taking care of myself—helping others live.
Yeah, sometimes, it can be a blessing to go quickly—or together. As I’ve often said, our pets are treated more humanely than we are when it comes to the end of life.
That’s a lot to think about. What else is new? Just notice what it’s like to read or listen closely. We learn a lot from the old—both from ourselves and from those who live and pass before us, even when the facts are twisted or covered up.
Both my wife's and my own parents passed close together. Her parents went within three days—mine within nine months. Both couples had been together for over 50 years.
My wife and I are approaching that golden landmark, which is sweet but accompanied by the sour—too much loss and sorrow. That’s hard to say—either out loud or to myself.
My wife's father had some heart problems at the same time her mom had a stroke. As a result, he waited to have surgery because he wanted to make sure she would be settled and have a place to live before he moved on.
But for a carpenter who usually took care of things right away and a wife who meticulously kept track of every expenditure, it was too late by the time he finally went in to have his valve repaired. He never made it out of surgery.
Then, shortly after, my mother-in-law joined him as they found their final resting place atop a hill overlooking their home in Presque Isle, Maine.
I sometimes wonder if she simply couldn't go on because it would have been too hard to live on her own. They were on the verge of moving into a smaller place, but never made it. No shame there—maybe a little of my own.
Just loss and sadness in my heart—where they still live alongside the others.
With my parents, my mom had been the sick one throughout her life, but my dad caught up to her as he worked too hard and avoided taking care of himself—until it was too late. They stayed together in their house, feeling blessed to be in their “perfect home.” It was far from perfect—just like me, and their beloved Buffalo Bills.
Although some disagreed, and it was hard to watch, I was respectful of their wishes to never move—and not to burden anyone else.
It was especially difficult for my mom after my dad passed—very lonely, as it is for so many in that position. She did reach out some, especially to my sweet wife—and had a few close friends and relatives nearby who checked in on her. But it wasn't enough. Once again—too little and too late.
Her heart problems eventually caught up to her, and a routine arteriogram was recommended to see what was going on. She had open-heart surgery 13 years earlier, and they suspected her valve was starting to leak too much. Even a pig’s valve doesn’t last forever.
But when my mom went under the knife for that “simple” test, things got complicated quickly. She slipped into a coma, developing a blood infection that spread from her arm to her heart. Not so simple—for either her or me.
Rushing to be with her, I sat at her bedside—speaking softly and telling her stories, like she would do with me when I was a child—feeling sick or just needing some company. I would sometimes do the same for her over the years—when her heart was out of rhythm and she thought she was dying.
Occasionally, I could see her trying to reach me—once lifting her head, briefly opening her eyes—and seeing through mine. But she never woke up to see me. It wasn’t enough.
It was a wake-up call for me. Don’t wait until it‘s too late to tell people what they mean to you.
And so it goes… silence. Bowing my head in silence.
My older brother joined my parents 13 years later, at the age of 57—perhaps needing some company of his own, or feeling like my parents needed his. He had been struggling with heart problems for many years. He also had diabetes, but didn't take great care of himself.
I didn't expect him to die so soon. We had more to say to each other—and ourselves.
Tears flowing... I’m just trying to finish the meal. It’s a big one—a lot to digest. It still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I better slow down and breathe.
It reminds me to check the leaky valves we all have in our house. I also need to start thinning out and getting that end-of-life paperwork in order. My wife reminds me, “And our Will, too.” I softly reply—“We will.”
I don’t want to leave a mess for my kids to clean up or take anything for granted. Yeah, it gets even more complicated in my line of work. I need to give that some more thought.
I'm the only one left now.
No—that’s not quite true. I have my beautiful wife and kids, and precious grandchildren. It's getting harder to see them—especially those across the pond—in the UK.
Time to make our reservations before there’s no gas left in the plane or TSA workers to check us in. We don’t want to be left behind—saying it’s too late.
In the meantime, my wife and I keep doing our best to take care of ourselves and each other. We appreciate every moment we have together. Just talking about the little things—our “little projects,” inside and out.
Even though they might not matter to some, we know how important they are to us—and those who really care. We have to laugh—and cry a little, too.
Every morning, we check in with each other: What else is new? She might say something like, “Not much... It isn’t like I was out dancing all night—just in my dreams.”
Glad we’re still around to ask that question—even when we don’t always like the answer, or soften it with a little humor—or too much information, if you know what I mean.
We know that we’ll be here to help each other do the heavy lifting in our own home—as long as we can. Or, we’ll ask people who care to help us, even when it gets messy. Those are our “Beefeaters,” carefully selected or self-selected—to guard our Tower of London. Hopefully, we won’t become prisoners.
I think about how my wife will manage when I'm not around. I imagine that she’ll think of me from time to time—but I have a feeling she’ll be okay. I know she won’t lose her light because she has so much within her—and around her, too. That’s who she is.
I think I'll be okay if she goes first. I'm sure it would be hard, but I'd keep going—driving down the road as long as I can. The car may have a lot of miles on it, but it still runs pretty well. My wife would still be in the car—knowing in my heart that she won’t fade from the image—or the light.
I want to keep writing and working as long as I can. That helps me see the light of invisibility—and keeps the stories coming. I’m still asking my old familiar question—waiting for an answer in the space within and between.
Thanks for being here and listening. It means a lot to me. You care about me—and you know I care about you. Even if we’ve never met, we may already know each other.
Let’s return to the breath. Just notice... what’s here now.
I’m going for a walk with the elephant. I’d love your company. We all could use a little light right now—the real kind… the light of our Core Self.
Life is a balance—joy and pain. What else is new?
See you again, my friend—alongside those we’ve loved… and lost, at home in the light of invisibility.
Gratitude: In appreciation of those who have shared their light and sweetness with me over the years—and received mine.
Confidentiality note: Any resemblance to your own life or our shared experience is both coincidental and universal—reminding us that our stories echo one another in the fabric of human experience.
Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close or long to be held.
About the author: Marc Cecil is a doctoral-level licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. An experienced psychotherapist, supervisor, consultant, and teacher, Marc uses an integrated-experiential model grounded in our capacity for adaptive change to help people heal from complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma.
Dr. Cecil lives in Vermont near the shores of Lake Bomoseen, where his heartfelt stories and images of connection arise from the light of invisibility—bringing life to therapy and therapy to life.