Why we live better when we talk about death
My grandfather, Philip Dwight Baker, was born on February 7, 1929. He would’ve been 95 this week. Just as he thought he was done rearing children, he and my grandmother stepped in to raise me when my parents couldn’t. He couldn’t always live on his own terms, but he got to leave on them.
Alongside my grandmother, mother, and aunt, I had the privilege of sitting with him in hospice during his last days. It was a rowdy week of takeout, reminiscing, family reunions, online shoe shopping, laughter, and tears. It was one of the most meaningful weeks of my life and one of the greatest honors of my…
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