I have a
dear friend who in less than three years has lost a sibling, a child, and a
parent.
I wonder if that made you take in a bit of
breath; I know it would for me. It is a bit overwhelming to even think that much sorrow could happen to a
person in such a short period of time.
Most of us
have known loss, and loss that is close, painful, and deeply sad. The
anniversary of my mother’s death only recently passed, and even though it was
16 years ago I remember it all quite well and I am still sad at not having her. I think she’d have liked visiting
London, and I know she’d have loved Tim. And the loss of a spouse, even years
later, still has a sombre resonance. Not every day or every week, but now and
then, gently reverberating with a note from an old friend or some event that
drops a reminder at my feet to pick up, pause, and then replace back into
memory. It’s a very different feeling now—not raw, loud, and persistent; just
slightly heavy, a bit muted. The gift of time, no doubt, has lightened the
burden.
But this post
isn’t meant to be about loss, but rather more the title. When my friend lost her
father, I thought to myself, how is that she is managing, having yet another
significant loss in a short period? But then I think, I know—she has resilience. I admire her at the same
time I feel for her; even with all the support, it cannot be easy, particularly
in the quiet moments we have with our own thoughts. Yet I think I know her well
enough to say that she’s not putting on an act of courage; she has found enough
strength to sustain her and been able to, once again, recover.
And yes, she
has a wonderful partner, someone who has been with her during each heart-breaking
event. She has good friends, of whom I’d like to count myself one, who don’t
have to say a lot but are just there to have a coffee and a conversation and
make life seem a bit normal.
A
university friend posted a note on Facebook commemorating the anniversary of
her husband’s loss of siblings in a horrific fire when he was quite young;
another friend posted about whether it was time to shred some papers after
losing her husband a few years ago. If Facebook has done nothing else it’s
given people a community to express themselves, to reach out and find solace,
and also to remember, to honour. It’s not a substitute for the comforting hug
from someone, it’s in addition to; another form of emotional healing. I posted
a photo of my mom on the anniversary of her death, and had the loveliest
responses back, one from our across-the-street neighbour growing up. We always
felt like we had two sets of parents watching over us back then, keeping us on
the straight and narrow (which was actually not a bad thing). What a wonderful
way to remember her, through him.
Reminders
of others’ pain can often reminders of my own, and each time I want to reply,
be strong, it gets easier.
I wanted to
write this because it has been on my mind and while it may be a bit awkward or
perhaps morose, I couldn’t seem to clear it out of my head to write anything
else. You never forget completely; the
actual date may become hazy, and the anniversaries that had significance before
may go by without acknowledgement, eventually. When a moment of recollection
does happen, I experience a bit of contemplation, relive the particular memory
in my mind, and experience some emotion that befits the recollection. (For me, I find now it is often a wry smile.)
And I count my blessings and carry on with a bit more determination to make the
most of each day.
I like to
think I am resilient. I know I am fortunate. Some people might even say I am
lucky. Whatever it is that brought me to today, happy and buoyant, I
acknowledge as a gift. And it makes every day matter that much more; makes
every friend, every relative, everyone who has touched my life that much more
important and worthy of some of my time and some of my heart.
May your
Easter be filled with family, friends, fun, food, and love. Crème eggs optional.
