How death reminds us to cherish the people who make life meaningful

Short:

Tom (centre), a beloved neighbour and popular local ‘character’ recently died sooner than expected leaving the street quieter and our lives emptier. The lesson: don’t be complacent and assume people in your community who lend meaning to your life will carry on year after year, especially if they’re advancing in age. Remember that finitude applies as much to people as it does to life. So note who they are and cherish the people who make your life meaningful. Even record them and their stories if they’re up for it. You’ll thank yourself for doing so, and so might they.

Long:

What makes life meaningful? Positive Psychology informs us that meaningfulness comes from a combination of big things, like achieving goals that take time and effort, or maintaining close personal relationships, and small things such as positive interactions with neighbours, hobbies, or volunteering. The sheer busyness of life and demands on our time that come from pursuing meaningful pursuits such as work, or raising children, can sometimes result in us under-estimating the value of smaller, briefer, sources of meaning.  Though depending on your circumstances, the meaningfulness of the small may have higher weighting.

Being somebody who lives and works largely alone (from home) I bet I’m among many to put themselves squarely in the latter camp. To help compensate I regularly try to create opportunities for small meaningful interactions. For example, on the ten minute walk around my block I take two to three times a day I’ve gotten to know up to a dozen people I can pass the time of day with should I chance upon them. These interactions mean a lot to me and without them my day-to-day life would be considerably poorer (interestingly, research from the field of longevity that has found social integration – the number of people you interact with during your day – to be one of the most important determinants of a long life).

Inevitably, there are some people on my walk who stand out (literally). Chief among them is, or more accurately was, ‘old’ Tom. Let me tell you about him.

Tom lived with his partner Linda in a small house near the end of their terrace, and they could often be seen pottering about their tiny front garden, invariably accompanied by a seagull Tom had befriended. Tom was one of those people with a natural gift to talk to virtually anybody (avians included) and performed a kind of informal service by introducing passersby who’d paused for a chat. In fact to walk by and not make at least eye contact would invite his curiosity. There was always a twinkle in his eye and you couldn’t help but warm to him. And while he could sometimes come across a little old fashioned in his occasional flirting with women far younger than him, I never saw it taken in anything other than the amusing way in which it was intended. To be subject to one of his gentle teases was validation that he liked you.

What made encounters with Tom extra special was the stories he could tell; and having spent his working life as a shipwright and run a business supplying ships anchored in the harbour, he’d no shortage.  I can recall several times when I’d chanced upon him while in town or on one of my strolls and spent a very pleasurable twenty minutes listening to a fascinating tale of him delivering an officer to a ship in heavy seas who on ignoring Tom’s advice, had miss-timed his step to the ship’s ladder, broken his leg, and then tried to sue him. Or of how Tom had provided a burial at sea service and how some of these had gone. And while he could speak for hours about his life in Falmouth, or his Polish dad who’d flown bombers in World War II, we would usually talk simply about gardening, or the weather, or the injustices being suffered by Ukraine.

The more I got to know him the more I thought somebody should offer to write his biography since it would make a fascinating read. Having writerly pretentions I began to wonder if I should be that person. Could I justify giving such an endeavour the time and commitment it would need (if he agreed) over the more pressing challenge of trying to earn a living? I couldn’t, so I procrastinated.

For three years the idea nagged and I was minded to suggest it to him this autumn when I noticed I’d not seen him for several weeks, and the house seemed quieter than usual.  I soon chanced upon his stepbrother at the house who informed me Tom had been suffering heart trouble and was in hospital being assessed for surgery and a triple heart by-pass. But his poor state of health was giving the doctors cause for concern. I hastily organised a get-well card and collected twenty-seven signatures, indelible proof of how well liked he was. And while Linda fed back that he’d been very grateful for the card, he died of heart failure at his sister’s house, where they’d moved him, two weeks after receiving it. The news came as a shock to everybody. One day he’d been pottering about his garden as usual. The next he was gone. We’re all heartbroken.  

Death’s important reminder

The death of someone we like or love, while deeply sad, can serve an important reminder to us that life is constantly changing, and importantly finite, especially when it comes to people. To forget this and complacently assume things will continue as they are, year after year, can have regrettable consequences. Memento mori. This is the lesson of finitude (which I blogged about in December 2025). When it comes to people who mean something to you unless you enquire (and even if you do) you may never know their true state of health. Such that underneath their friendly outward appearance death is stealthily preparing to snatch them away sooner than you think, as it was with Tom. While this especially applies to people over sixty we all know that age offers scant immunity (one of my best friends died of a brain tumour aged only 58).

The risk of failing to acknowledge this is that we can leave matters too late.  Then before you know it the person passes on, taking their history, their stories, their shine. And a house you walk past in expectation of pausing for a friendly interaction, to brighten your day, goes silent for ever.  You didn’t get the opportunity to tell them what they meant to you. And you’re left with few records of them because you hardly took any photos or videos. It simply never occurred to you at the time. They’re always there, aren’t they?

The purpose of this piece is to recommend you don’t make this mistake and live to regret it as I’ve done. You can’t replace the people in your life who make it meaningful. But you can probably do more to make the most of them and honour what they mean to you. So do that right now. Note who those people are, what they mean to you, and imagine how your life would be were they to suddenly disappear from it. Then decide what you will do to recognise and convey the value they hold for you, and take whatever actions this inspires. One day they won’t be around. You’re unlikely to know when that day is and if they’re getting on in age it could be sooner than you expect. So do what you need to do to help insure against this. At least then you’ll have more than mere memories and have honoured the important place they held in your heart.

RIP Tom Walzewski.