Unexpected twist

So much for chilling. My son called a little while ago to ask where the homeopathic flu remedy is. Of course I have it here, and he is at his father’s. I said I would bring it by in the morning, but then realized that by then he might feel really lousy. So I called back and said I’d bring it over.

The rain and fog along the highway put me in a pensive mood. Upon arrival I found an envelope addressed to me — with no return address. It was a death notice from someone who had quite an impact on my life. She wrote her own obituary, which really got to me. It was a long time coming — she suffered and fought her illness for many years. She was one tough cookie.

I brought the medicine upstairs and instructed my husband as to dosage, and then I left. This is the hard part of separation — I would have preferred to stay and watch over my son, but it wasn’t appropriate.

So I drove back home again. Then I read the note again quietly. She had written it in the third person. The last line was: [She] “bids you farewell in deeply felt gratitude for your friendship!” That’s life, too.

Farewell

Once I saw you enter this world
and now I’ve watched you leave.
Powerless, helpless by your side
I am consumed by grief.

You walked with me on this path for a while
I hoped you’d be here longer,
but fate and powers beyond my control
have proven they are stronger.

At least I was able to give you more
than some receive their whole lives:
love, attention, and caring devotion
upon which your tender soul thrives.

So full of promise,
with a future so bright,
that you have to leave now
just doesn’t seem right.

I thank God that I knew to treasure you
and for all the things that we did,
for the dear memories we could collect
before farewell we had to bid.

Many days I sat next to you
as you prepared to go,
and felt that aching endless pain
only a parent can know.

You’re destined for a higher plane,
a brighter point of view.
Wherever you go, please remember me
and how much I love you.

Mourning

Mourning is a learning process and it takes practice. It feels strange to say, but it gets better with each new experience. By that, I mean, I am better able to handle it in a satisfactory way. Several years ago, I didn’t go to my grandmother’s funeral. I thought it would be more disrespectful to go than to stay home, knowing I would probably binge and puke while I was there. Plus I didn’t really want to see my father either, as I had cut off ties with him at that time. I wrote in my journal, talking with my grandmother, begging her understanding and forgiveness.

Meanwhile several years have passed, and so have some relatives and friends. Thus I have had a few confrontations with death. Death has something frightening about it, and years ago, I was too afraid to talk about it. Generally I would simply ignore people and pretend it didn’t happen. Gradually, I dared to speak, although I didn’t know what to say. When a school friend died, I called her mother. I barely knew her and didn’t know what to say, but we had a long talk on the phone. She was very happy that I called her.

When my friend’s life companion died, I was really able to be there for her. We spent countless evenings talking and crying together. It has been ten years, but I am still happy to listen to her and comfort her when she slips into the “missing” mode every now and then. Loss is something that affects us for several years, if not for the rest of our lives, depending on who we lost. She discovered that many people are not willing to accept the process of mourning. After six months she was still sad, and people told her it was time to get on with her life and find someone new. She never stopped living. She was simply sad and missed the greatest love of her life. That’s understandable, isn’t it?

Some people think about the meaning of life a lot, others not so much. The loss of someone we love often brings us to question death and the meaning of life. I have tended to devote my life to such speculation and reflection (sometimes to the extreme of forgetting to live, but I’m improving in my old age!). Life is a mystery we will never quite understand. But perhaps exactly that makes it magical as well. We just don’t know and never will.

Sometimes it is wonderful, sometimes it is agonizing. Despite my lack of knowledge regarding the big picture, I maintain my courage, faith and trust, and keep going. I believe that in the end it will all make sense somehow. I believe that we can find something good in every experience, and that we can learn from every experience. It is all part of this precious thing we call life: so terribly wonderful and wonderfully terrible it can be.

What I’m trying to say with all these words is really quite simple: Death is part of life, and it’s good to talk about it. In my experience, most people want to talk about it when they have lost a loved one. I talk with them, listen, ask questions, and sometimes I cry with them. That is a special part of friendship, which has also taught me a lot. That is my experience.

My further experience is that some people leave quite suddenly without warning. One of the hardest things in such a situation is that so much is left unsaid. Thus I have learned to keep in touch with those I care about and express my appreciation of them. I don’t do it perfectly, but I try.