One of my guilty pleasures is reading the letters to Carolyn Hax via the Washington Post. If you can’t live an exciting life, live vicariously through others. So when I read one of the letters to her about the complicated relationship with a father, and how best to remember them, it got me reflecting on my relationship with mine.

My dad passed away in 2014 in his 91st year. I was greatly saddened, but not surprised. Let’s face it, 91 is old. Still, I mourned, but not for long—I had already mourned the death of our relationship years before that date.

I know that sounds harsh but hear me out. My father lived 774 miles from me and had a whole host of infirmities that impacted being able to communicate. He was nearly deaf, making talking (shouting) on the phone an exercise in frustration, and incapable of using email. That left postal mail, but his memory lapses and crippled hands prevented him from remembering to handwrite/type or send letters. So, unless I showed up on his doorstep, we weren’t going to communicate.

I say all that about my father not as an accusation, but to establish context. I probably should have found the time to make the 13+ hour drive. But I let lack of leave time and money issues dictate our relationship. Even when we did sit down together and were able to engage in something approximating a discussion, the effort quickly died due to lack of common interests. Once we stood in the driveway and he went on about his truck. I nodded along, but it became clear his beloved truck was nothing more than a collection of metal parts and rubber hoses to me. Likewise, when I talked IT, his eyes glazed over. I liked football, but he did not care. There was only so much weather we could talk about. We were just different people with different lives, and finding a reason to talk was not a family value.

In fact, the mantra of our family was to “keep your secrets,” “suffer in silence,” and “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” All wonderfully unempathetic thoughts designed to make you self-reliant and ensure that you die alone. I suppose in most natural circumstances, that’s what happens. You go on that eternal dirt nap unescorted. Until that happens though, we watch as old friends and family disappear into the ether, and unless we add new interconnections, our carefully cultivated “world” implodes.

This leaves me, an emotionally constipated, hyper-introverted, self-absorbed would-be-narcissist-if-I-loved-myself wondering. Is this what we’re doomed to? Watching our world collapse like a dying star, sucking the joy and connectedness of our lives vanish into the black hole of old age? I sure hope not.

If there is anything useful to be gleaned from my experience, it is to stay connected with those who can challenge your thinking, engage with others that share your interests, while at the same time loving those who you are with. I firmly believe that family is more than just blood; it also includes friends we meet along the way. So, though we die alone, we shouldn’t die of loneliness.