Death and Dying, Life and Living

I returned yesterday from Texas, where I attended one of the nicest memorial services I can remember. As a matter of fact, after it was over, I pulled one of the "locals" aside and asked if this was a typical service. For if it was a typical service, I'm moving to Texas before I die.
There was a little bit of religion; a couple of prayers led by one of the best friends of the deceased. Mostly it was story-telling about the deceased. Those old guys in Texas know how to tell a tale, so there was a lot of laughter and a few tears. There were stories about Larry's childhood, about his children, and about a recent trip he took with the guys. There were testimonials about his character, and the life he had led. I learned so much about Larry, and it was gratifying to know that these men, some of whom had known him over 60 years, felt the same way I did about him. Larry was a kind man. He was always willing to lend a hand, and expected nothing in return. He didn't talk a lot, but at the same time, you didn't hear him speak negatively about anyone. He married just one woman, and they raised three children (of whom they could be proud).
I've thought alot about death and dying recently. Larry and my dad were the same age when they died, but their deaths were very different. Larry was the "lucky" one. Larry died at home, surrounded by his family and friends. He was able to meet, hold, and touch his granddaughter, who was 3 months old when he died. Larry knew he had cancer, and held on for as long as he could--almost 2 years from the initial diagnosis; this allowed him time to travel a bit and to see people he needed to see. He and his family were helped through the process of death by hospice caregivers, and were grateful to have that guidance (hospice workers are a gifted bunch--it takes a special person to be able to do what they do). I think his family took comfort in the fact that they had time to say what they needed to say, and be with him right until the end.
My dad died in a hospital, surrounded by some of his loved ones. I was in England at the time, having just given birth to Erika 10 days earlier. I did not know he was dying, and did not have the chance to say good-bye. I have regreted this for years, but I know that he died knowing how much I loved him, and that's some comfort (I learned at an early age that people will not be with you forever, and it's important to tell them often how much you love them). I think our family could have used some guidance from hospice caregivers, but I don't think that was an option 23 years ago. Dad's death was not especially sudden, but I don't think he had time to prepare. If he had, I think our last conversation would have been very different. My biggest regret of all was that he never met his granddaughter; he knew she had been born, but shortly after that he slipped into a coma. I often wish I could have been there with him; I know I would have had the closure I needed. I needed to hear other old men tell stories about my dad, I needed to hear his favorite song, and especially I needed to know where he was buried (to this day, I have trouble finding his gravesite, and I get angry about that).
As I said before, I've recently had time to think about death, and I've come to some conclusions. First and foremost, it's true what they say--what's important is how you've lived. Perhaps the best measure of the impact your life has had is that you're missed. That you're remembered. That in 20 years, someone still talks about you, wants to tell someone about your life. You don't need to have done great deeds that will be written of in history books, but you do need to have had an impact (for the good) on the lives of others. And that as you die, you know you've been loved. I think one definition of Hell on earth would be to know for certain, as you're dying, that you are not loved, nor will you be missed, by anyone.
Larry and my dad were good men. They were loved by many, and they are missed. Twenty years from now, people will still speak of them fondly, will say, "I once knew a guy...." The stories told about their lives will bring smiles and laughter to others. Surely they rest in peace, knowing they lived good lives. And that we loved them, very much.