By Dr. Tim Seelig–
One of the most poignant songs of my generation was John Denver’s Leaving on a Jet Plane. That opening line, “All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go,” still stirs deep emotions on so many levels. I’ve been the leaver often, packing my bags many times. I’ve also been the one left behind. Now in my 75th year on the planet and surrounded by folks my age (my new choir), I am constantly reminded that the final trip is coming sooner than later. Time to pack some bags for that trip. I’ve begun by checking things off my bucket list. Last week, I went skydiving. You’ll hear much more about it next month!
I know some of what leaving leaves. I’ve lost many. I lived through the 1980s and 1990s losing people I loved weekly. I’ve lost all but one of my immediate family members. This was brought to mind most recently while watching my granddaughter graduate from 8th grade. Her mother wasn’t there to witness it. The absence is a reminder how sometimes people leave far too soon. Sudden, tragic, without warning.
I’ve shared the “Ball in a Box” concept before. At first, the grief ball takes up all the room in the house like a giant exercise ball bouncing around, knocking over your furniture and making it hard to breathe. But over time the grief ball shrinks. It never disappears. It lives in a little box in the corner of your heart. Most days, you can walk around it. But then bam, you stub your emotional toe, and it all comes rushing back.
So, here’s my question: If leaving is inevitable, why don’t we talk more about the how and when we hope or want to leave? Why do we have to whisper about death like it’s a dirty word? When it comes to The Big Departure, that discussion is taboo. We’re not supposed to talk about it. It’ll jinx it. Or summon it. Or offend someone.
It’s different for those of us who’ve been around the block … and then circled back because we forgot what we came for. We’ve lived full lives, or at least long ones. If we’re honest, we are already packing those farewell bags. I watched both my parents pack for their final trips. It was not a quick, throw things in a duffle bag. Due to declining health, it lingered. There was a lot of humor.
My Mom, bless her heart, became what the Baptists call a “shut in.” No one ever clarified who shut her in or might one day let her out, but the church folks dutifully prayed for the shut-ins every Wednesday prayer meeting. My Dad eventually told her it was too hard to get her out twice a week, to church and the beauty parlor. Her big Texas hair-do won out. Her choice was made easier by the advent of drums, projection screens, and praise choruses replacing hymn books and the glorious music she had taught and sung.
She was a storyteller. On one visit to the beauty parlor, her shampoo girl asked, “How are you, Mrs. Seelig?” Mom sighed, “I’m so scattered, I don’t know which end is up.” Without missing a beat, the shampoo girl said, “Well, you better decide, ‘cause I’m gonna wash one of ‘em.”
The time came when Mom needed a hospital bed at home. She was adamantly opposed. The family won. The day it arrived, she coincidently had her nails and hair done. She went to bed at about 10 pm. By midnight, she had crossed over to her final reward. She said she wasn’t going to sleep in a hospital bed. So, she didn’t.
My Dad was a Post-it guy. He put Post-it notes on each of the mementos from my parents’ fascinating lives. It had the name of the person who would be the recipient. He didn’t always ask if we wanted them or not. He moved the Post-its around depending on who had checked on him or not. When the Post-it musical chairs stopped, my son got the huge painting of Dad’s horses. He loves it.
Through heart attacks, a broken hip, three bouts of cancer, and a brain tumor the size of a golf ball, Dad fought off the grim reaper with a passion. I never understood this. He spent a lifetime preaching and singing hymns about the glories of heaven, as Christians do. And yet he fought it for as long as possible. At 94, he got an infected foot that resulted in sepsis. A day before he died, always finding humor, he said, “Well, I never thought the Lord was going to take me because of a bunion!”
Another line from a song has haunted me for decades. “Sometimes people leave you halfway through the wood.” It’s from Into the Woods. It’s true for children, for friends, for parents, and siblings. Eventually, all people are going to leave. I’ll be one of those people one of these days.
Even if you don’t get to walk all the way through the woods with those you love, you are responsible for the content of the bags they discover along the way once you are gone. Hopefully, it will be a path marked with laughter and love and Post-it notes. All my bags are packed. I’m not quite ready to go. But I’m thinking about it without fear. And if you’re wise, you’re thinking about it too.
Dr. Tim Seelig is the Conductor Laureate of the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus. http://www.timseelig.com/
TLC: Tears, Laughs and Conversation
Published on July 17, 2025
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