The Unfinished List

We all die with things undone

Hello, friend.

A colleague bemoaned to me today that there are so many things to do and "there isn't enough time." I totally relate to my colleague feeling pressed for time—I, too, have a ridiculously long to-do list. But spending time with my 87-year old father has given me another perspective.

In 4000 Weeks, Oliver Burkeman makes the point that we will die with things undone. This became really clear to me this past weekend when I told my father, "The choice isn't whether to move to assisted living anymore. It's which facility would be best for you."

He admitted he'd been stalling for months and that he was scared. He's confronting a different kind of deadline from what my colleague and I fret about. I didn't rush to reassure him. Instead, I moved to the chair closer to him. "It is scary," I acknowledged. We spent the next hour talking about his fears.

After that conversation cracked him open, he cataloged a few of the things he had planned to do to his current house. As long as he lived there, he could imagine he would get around to them but moving to assisted living means acknowledging that they will never happen.

"I had so many plans," he said, gesturing at the open living room. He was going to make a built-in cabinet to display his camera collection. He always loved building things, "making sawdust" as he called it. He has a well-outfitted workshop in the garage, which I don't think he's used in months or longer. Moving means acknowledging he'll never use the workshop again.

I once heard that aging has three phases: go-go, slow-go, and no-go. Before taking a 12-year break from my father, I saw him in his go-go phase, traveling and entertaining regularly. Now I'm here for his no-go phase. His world has contracted to the corners of this house, and soon, it will contract further to a modest apartment.

There's no poetic way to dress this up. It just hurts to watch. It hurts him to feel the possibilities narrowing, and it hurts me to witness it.

I reminded him that the assisted living places all have events and social activities. "I'm sure there will be other residents who want to talk about woodworking and cars," I suggested, pointing to an activity calendar from one of the brochures. "They might appreciate having someone with your expertise."

He didn't respond directly. Just stared at his hands—hands that once built furniture and fixed cars and held cameras steady for the perfect shot. This is the reality of watching someone you love face the end of possibility. Not the grand finale of death itself, but the quiet preceding years when doors gently close, one by one.

He's still alive, still learning, still craving connection and conversation. In acknowledging what's being left behind, we make space to discover what might still lie ahead. Perhaps this is the wisdom I needed to bring back to my own overflowing to-do list. We live with the illusion of infinite tomorrows, endless possibilities stretching before us. But my father's journey reminds me that every life contains an unfinished list—projects abandoned, paths not taken.

My brain mass Buttercup has been quiet lately, affording me the opportunity to imagine it will be decades before I have to face my unfinished list. But in the meantime, I remind myself that not everything on the list will get done and that is ok. I have a list of scholarly articles and books I want to write, but the reality is that most won’t get written. I will likely only travel to a handful of the places I want to see.

The question isn't whether we'll leave things unfinished—we will—but which things we choose to complete while we can still hold the tools in our hands.

If something here resonates with you, I'd be honored if you shared it with someone who might need it today. Let’s help each other along on this journey. I'm grateful our paths have crossed.

Onward, in hope and solidarity.
Elizabeth

P.S. The photo at the top is Apelcini’s photo, “Four Unfinished Paper Mache Masks.”