WHAT REMAINS
ALM No.93, September 2026
ESSAYS
It’s been over six months since I wrote about my cousin’s death by assisted suicide and the way he, and his decision, affected me. At seventy-two, he had been diagnosed with a virulent form of dementia. While we’ve all experienced the death of family members, close or not, of friends, of others we revere from afar, this death, this dying, and the man himself, was different for me. My essay was presented to a class studying memoir and essay writing at UCLA and many expressed their feelings of what it meant to them, and a few asked if I intended to write anything more, perhaps a follow-up.
I did not. Until now.
Since, “When The Future Is Now,” was published at Oldster, an online publication with a broad readership, the many comments I received made me realize even more how many of us are interested in the subject of assisted suicide. In the aftermath, I have thought about what stays, what leaves, and what it takes to keep someone alive when they are no longer here. Also, having lost my husband three years ago, this wasn’t entirely new territory for me.
My cousin died in October of 2025, and his memorial was held in Berkeley, California the following March at the beautiful Kala Art Institute which helps sustain artists through residencies and fellowships. My cousin and his wife were great supporters of Kala, and it is a beautiful building and setting.
As the early morning chill gave way to a warm and sunny afternoon over a hundred people gathered, everyone dressed, not so much in mourning, but what I would I describe as quietly respectful. Many looked professorial, likely colleagues in the field of psychotherapy, and perhaps, like my cousin and his wife, psychoanalysts. I thought if one were to have a breakdown this was a perfect place to do it. The memorial was by invitation, because, as my cousin’s wife said, she didn’t want to encounter anyone who might come up to introduce themselves to her, since her husband had no doubt encountered numerous students and others she had never known. Instead, unsurprisingly, she wanted to be surrounded by friends and family.
I find funerals almost barbaric with rituals and pageantry, whereas a memorial at its best can be a true celebration of a life lived. And since it is often held months after the actual death, this distance in time allows everyone a chance to find some peace and reflect. Also, the speakers, if not overly long or morose, might be clearer minded in offering their personal reflections and therefore contribute further insight from a different perspective. It’s always heartwarming to learn something new about the person being eulogized.
The speeches, some more tearful than others, all managed to convey something amusing about their friend, father, or brother. I was called upon to read a prepared speech from my cousin’s older sister, who was unable to make it in from Vermont due to weather. Fortunately, it was short and included a story of her youngest brother’s youthful marijuana use and hiding it from his parents. It was a theme that ran through more than one remembrance and the plethora of therapists in the audience might well have had a laugh analyzing it.
There were beautifully displayed photos of my younger, devilishly handsome cousin, and notes to write for the family. There was alcohol mixed with a sense of wistfulness floating among polite conversation, and there was food organized by one of his daughters, a professional chef, who chose foods her father had liked.
There wasn’t a whiff of religion in the proceedings, but instead a sense of deep admiration, call it spiritual even, for a singular man with courage. No doubt there were many in attendance who wondered whether or not they, too, would, or could, make such a decision.
Widows, and widowers, are an ever-expanding club that takes in every age, race, and religion, and there aren’t any guidelines to help someone navigate the rocky waves of sorrow and despair. Every platitude or half-baked idea, so generously proffered and unasked for, from friends and family can sear into the heart of even the most valiant survivor. I know this to be true. The best advice is probably not to offer advice, even if you’ve been there, especially if you’ve been there.
The protagonist of my third novel is a young widow, and though I started this book years ago—and long before, I, too, became a not-so-young widow, and I’ve made deep revisions, the main character is still young. It is ironic that she came to me at all and I have found that what I had imagined for her was, and is, accurate. However, this is not a book so much about grief, but a story of discovery and the mystery of families.. And while, both my cousin’s wife, and my fictional widow, went flat up against what is often perceived as how and when a widow should proceed with her life, judging anyone’s choices is simply a fool’s game. All any of us should do is give a hand, physically, emotionally, or both, with the knowledge that one day you, too, will no doubt be in a similar position and it’s best to just hold back and try not to muck it up.
For me, my stay in Berkeley for the memorial was also a chance to spend time with my other cousin—the middle child of the three, an oncologist—and his wife who live in Miami. We had maintained a fairly close relationship and he was particularly helpful when my husband was ill several years ago. But now, staying in the same hotel, I was pleased to learn more from stories told over walks and morning coffee. Occasionally, in the course of the weekend, there would be snippets of conversation, or bits overheard from others that provided further insight into my family.
Families are endlessly fascinating. Even if we don’t want to admit it, it’s hard to escape the fact, and it helps to explain why I’ve written novels where family is integral. In fiction or real life, and even if family members never appear, they are present, and whether we acknowledge them or not, they are with us. Beyond my son and grandchildren and a couple nieces, no other immediate members survive, so I look to those few cousins and their offspring to complete my small circle. I am interested in their lives and whatever stories they have to tell. Although perhaps even more gratifying was the occasional off-hand comment from one or another that opened a window into family machinations and long-held opinions or grudges. Everyone has an opinion about everyone else. It’s the way of the world, and especially true of families. At this point in my life, I find it mostly amusing. For those of us lucky enough to get older, and certainly in the light of loss, it seems we should all just take a breath and gin up our patience along with maintaining a sense of humor.
In thinking about what remains, I recently came across the phrase, the absence of telling, which could be interpreted in many ways, but it struck me, so I wrote it down and have been thinking about it ever since. I am aware that in some sense I currently live in an ongoing stage that could definitely be described as the absence of telling. Along with others who have lost someone close to them, widows and widowers no longer say the many little and big things out loud because, we are after all, alone and to whom would we speak? I live increasingly in my head, and occasionally on the page. Because the truth is that we lose those words spoken daily—whether remarking on the weather or confirming we’re fucking out of coffee—along with longer talks that include complaining about the state of the world, and yes, family. With luck, we have friends to talk to and for whom we smile and try not to bore. However, in place of this telling, we read more and listen intently, so there is definitely something to be gained. Thoughtfulness, patience.
Reluctant to give it up, I thought perhaps if I kept on writing something, anything, to do with my cousin, I could somehow keep his memory alive. But I already know it doesn’t work that way. Because it isn’t so much our words, what we say or write, that keep someone with us. But their words, their gestures, and the sense that we know what they would say and do if they were still alive. I believe this is what stays in our minds and rings in our ears. So what remains with us is a kind of ephemeral and fleeting essence that burrows within our hearts and rests within our soul until we, too, are gone.
Originally from New York, Janet Clare, grew up in Los Angeles, and attended UC Berkeley. She created and ran apparel business until escaping to write her first novel. "Time Is the Longest Distance" was published in 2018 by Vine Leaves Press, and her second novel, "True Home," was published in 2025. She is currently completing her third novel.
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