Deemed a modern classic, The Year of Magical Thinking is exquisitely written, deeply poignant—and I hated reading it. I rushed through its pages the way one might rush through the receiving line at a funeral: dutifully, respectfully, but eager to escape the suffocating air of grief.
Didion’s account of the sudden death of her husband and the parallel ordeal of her daughter’s illness feels both raw and composed, intimate yet universal. Her prose opens old wounds you thought had long scarred over. As I read, her words didn’t just tell her story—they resurrected mine.
I found myself silently comparing her losses to my own. Everyone, I suspect, has this book somewhere inside them, but few can articulate sorrow with Didion’s precision and restraint. Like her, I have often wondered whether I could have done more—whether I might have eased my mother’s suffering as dementia slowly erased her, or somehow saved my sister, who died suddenly before reaching forty. The helplessness still stings decades later.
Grief is a solitary ritual. When my father died of a heart attack at thirty-five, I was seven. There were no tears, no tantrums—just the quiet acceptance of a boy who learned too early that life can vanish mid-sentence.
As Didion’s pages turned, I realized I was no longer reading her memoir but reliving my own: the hospital rooms, the whispered prayers, the hollow silences after the machines stopped.
Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking is a Pandora’s box of 227 pages. Once opened, it releases everything you thought you had buried—grief, guilt, love, regret—and leaves you to reckon with the consequences.
We rarely know when we are sharing the last conversation, the last laugh, or the last look with someone we love. Sometimes death announces itself with months of warning; other times it slips in like a thief, stealing a life in the space between heartbeats. Over the years, I have stood at the bedsides and shared the dinners that turned out to be final moments. These are the stories of my aunt, my sister, my stepfather, my mother—and of a Valentine’s Day in childhood that taught me the lesson I carry still: tomorrow is never promised.
Aunt Irene’s Peace
My Aunt Irene was plagued with poor health, especially heart issues in her fifties. She endured multiple heart attacks—just as nearly all her brothers and sisters did, including my father, who died at 35.
For years, Irene feared death, understandably so given her condition and the string of family losses she had endured. Then, one day at a family function, she pulled me aside with an urgency I’ll never forget.
She told me she no longer feared dying.
During one of her heart attacks, she had what the medical profession would call a near-death experience—but to her, it was entirely real. She said she saw and spoke with loved ones who had already passed, including my father, with whom she had been very close. She described it as a place of pure peace, tranquility, and happiness.
Because of that experience, she was no longer afraid—and she wanted me to understand that I should never fear death either. My father gave my aunt his house when her marriage failed and she needed a home for her and her three children. I think she felt duty bound to pass on something that would guide me as I got older.
She died peacefully a few months after sharing her feelings with me.
My Sister’s Ominous Reading
In January 1995, my sister Sandra died at just 38 years old during brain surgery to remove a growing tumor near her optic nerves. The main fear had been the risk of blindness. I don’t recall any great concern that she might not survive the surgery. A few months before the surgery, she and some of her friends had gone to dinner, followed by a visit to a psychic.
The psychic read cards for each of her friends with ease and everyone marvelled and laughed at their future predictions—until it was Sandra’s turn. The psychic’s demeanor changed. She looked unsettled and while staring at the cards said she could not see Sandra’s future. Sandra’s psychic session ended abruptly. I hold no firm beliefs on psychics or their practice but I found this a cautionary tale. Was it coincidence? Or a warning? The unsettling moment stayed with Sandra’s friends long after she was gone.
One Last Look
Two days before her surgery, my wife and I hosted Sandra, her husband, her daughter, and my mother for dinner. Sandra showed no visible fear and instead focused on how long her recovery would take. However I was deeply worried, but Sandra teased me when my wife mentioned I’d gone to Mass earlier that day. I had not been at Mass in years and had no great belief in prayer.
When dinner was over and Sandra left, she got into her car and stared at me for a long, deliberate moment as she drove away. My wife and mother noticed it too. At the time, our greatest fear was that she might go blind; I thought perhaps she was memorizing my face just in case.
We shared that one last look before she died.
My Stepfather’s Last Words
In his final months, my stepfather’s body was ravaged by cancer. He lost 100 pounds, was confined to bed, drifted in and out of awareness, and could no longer communicate. Hospice care became his world.
On his last day, I had to put an oxygen mask on him because the visiting technician was too shaken by his condition to do it. I secured the mask, and to my shock, my stepfather lifted it, looked me directly in the eyes, and asked, in a clear, steady voice, “What’s next?” I was stunned and offered that the mask would let him breath easier.
He hadn’t spoken coherently in months. He was comatose. Yet, in that moment, he seemed alert to fully understand where he was—and what was coming. He passed away a few hours after his last words.
A Fleeting Return
My mother’s final years were spent in an assisted living facility. Dementia robbed her of clarity, recognition, and the gentle temperament she had always carried. Most days she didn’t know me, my sister, or even her best friend of 50 years.
Visits were often an exercise in quiet heartbreak. But one afternoon, perhaps a month before she died, she surprised me. She knew exactly who I was. She spoke with complete lucidity, telling me she was scared, that she missed her home, and that she hated being a burden. She even apologized for her condition—as if she had caused it.
For a brief, shining moment, she was herself again. I thought of taking her home. But within minutes, the light in her eyes faded, the fog returned, and she was gone from me once more, though her body lived on a few more weeks. I remember that I cursed God for what had been done to my mother and to all the other helpless people that I saw in that assisted living home.
The Valentine’s Day Card
In the winter of 1960, when I was seven, my parents were heading out to a Valentine’s Day party. I had made a card for my mother and gave it to her gladly. I had also made one for my father—but I was angry with him for some reason, and I withheld it.
As they put on their coats, something inside me changed. I handed my father his card. He opened it, smiled, kissed my forehead, and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
But I never saw him again. He died that night of a heart attack at age 35.
I have often thought of that moment. Had I let my anger win, the guilt of my last act toward him being one of rejection would have been unbearable. Instead, I learned—at the age of seven—that tomorrow is never guaranteed, and the chance to make amends may never come again.
In all these moments—some peaceful, some mysterious, some unbearably sad—the same truth emerges: Life is fragile. Goodbyes can be sudden. And sometimes, in the quiet between breaths, there is a chance to speak the words that matter most.
We can deal with this anxiety individually by living a day at a time, being present to what the day has to offer. If there is no sickness or any other problem, we can enjoy the day. Some people project themselves into a debilitating future and live in the anxiety of imagined woes to come.
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I don’t care what the calendar says. I have a strong youthful component in me, and often that person in his 40s seems to inhabit my body. Even when I look in the mirror, I sometimes manage to see more of the 40 year old man than the one who is 76. I’ve always been a strong believer in illusions.
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Simple, ordinary activities can improve your health and ease the black bile of melancholy that afflicts many older people. Take that walk in the woods, look for a sparkling lake or river, and don’t spend much time with negative people. We don’t realize how important it is to rely on nature for our health and mood, to think about the kind of people we have around us, and to understand the value of gardens and trees.
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The older years offer a perfect time to reflect more often, more deeply and more seriously on these important aspects of life. Of course, we need to begin this kind of reflection in our youth, but it can reach its depth in old age. Being part of a culture that has lost interest in profound ideas and intense reflection on experience makes aging more difficult.
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Being an elder not only helps other people find guidance and wisdom, but it also gives the older person added reason for living. It may be the final act of a generous and thoughtful life. It is service taken to the last moment and done with a special authority and dedication it helps if the older person consciously adopts the role of elder. I could say from my own experience that a certain point people begin to treat you as an elder and look for benefits that you may be able to give them.
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The poet Maya Angelou once wrote: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Thus legacy is a matter of the heart. It’s not an idea but a feeling connected to largely invisible people, it’s a special way of loving, and if there is anything that could make growing old more pleasurable, it would be to discover new ways to love.
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Reflection – – the first stage for an ordinary person is reading or listening to someone else offer an understanding of events. You listen or read and make those ideas your own in your own way. The second stage of reflection is conversation. You make a point to speak with people who have something worthwhile to say and with whom you enjoy speaking. A third stage of reflection is to find some effective mode in which you can express yourself it could be writing of various forms – – journals poems, essays, fiction…
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My Review of the Book
I am a bit of a cynic. Books like these discussing getting older are often written with the goal to alleviate the concerns and fears of elderly people as they approach death. The objectives when you get into your 70s and 80s are to find interests and things that will motivate you to stay alive or at least maintain your enthusiasm for healthy living.
While one can try to maintain a healthy attitude about life in your 70s and 80s, what’s more important are the states of your mind and your body. It’s critically important that you are not alone and that you do have some type of social network that hopefully includes family and friends.
It’s a comforting book with some useful bromides about topics like overcoming melancholy and leaving legacies. I don’t think there is one philosophy or set of rules to follow in life after 70. One of the things that I try to adjust to is the declining control I have in the direction of my life. I don’t have the physical, intellectual or mental energy I had a year ago and I expect that to continue to decline.
Esot-eric 