One of my dearest friends lost her mother to pancreatic cancer yesterday, the day before Christmas Eve. In light of this terrible tragedy, I decided to postpone my typical witty repartee and dedicate my Christmas blog to my friend and my friend's family. It hardly seemed appropriate that I would write about my lack of gift-wrapping skills or the blue trail I conquered on my last cross-country skiing trip when my friend is suffering such terrible heartache right now.
My own mother died from cancer six years ago this January. The holidays are an excruciating time for anyone who has suffered loss, whether it happens in April, June, July, or December. But when we hear about a loss right before Christmas, it resonates deeper with us for some reason. Perhaps that is because Christmas is inherently a holiday about birth and renaissance. But death occurs when it occurs, oblivious to our cultural celebrations.
Our society handles death so strangely. At funerals, people will say you were "so strong" because you "didn't even shed a tear." That is called being completely numb and in denial - not unhealthy or abnormal, but it's still a manifestation of grief. Standard bereavement leave is about three days. We are told the grief process takes about a year, when that is just barely enough time for the shock to wear off. Then we are expected to be back to normal, when, in reality, nothing is ever "normal" in the same sense again.
When my mother died, I was so frustrated with the pat answers I would receive (especially from Christian friends). The other night when my friend called me after learning the devastating prognosis, I wanted so badly to encourage her that I am afraid I might have fallen back on some of the standard grieving jargon. For that, I apologize profusely.
The three most profound comforts when my mother died were snapshots that didn't require words at all. I remember my brother, Steve, and I sitting on either side of my mother waiting for the mortuary to take her away. I was seated on her right, Steve was on the left. We looked at each other and sighed wearily, almost in relief, in that brief moment clearly understanding what the other was feeling. I remember one of my best friends Tara hugging me at the funeral reception, her daughter in her arms, silent tears in her eyes, no words exchanged, just shared grief. And I remember my Aunt Rita and Aunt Jan helping in the kitchen and around the house, cooking, cleaning, taking care of the things my dad, brother, and I were too tired to think about.
I would get (and let's be honest, still get, because grief doesn't ever leave us completely) so angry - at God, at Dan my husband, at friends who didn't call enough and when they did call not actually wanting to talk to them, at the woman at church who was supposedly dying of cancer and everyone kept trying to get us to do this and that for her family and for her. But she hadn't died yet, and there I was dealing with death in its realest, most absolute form, not with some predicted death in the far off future.
And no matter how many friends or family members surrounded me during the days leading up to and following the funeral, I eventually found myself completely and utterly alone, in solitude and darkness, unwillingly encountering yet another wave of the human grieving experience.
Death never leaves us. There is always a void. Nothing is ever the same again. Especially during the holidays. Even when Dan and I fill our season with fun Christmas-oriented activities or we spend time with our new family, I still miss . . . something.
But eventually, there are moments of solace and consolation. My mother was an author and a journalist, and because of this, I still have record of my mother through her writings and her old diaries. Sometimes, I can hear her voice so vividly that she seems to be standing in the room with me. And in spite of my theological skepticism on the issue of ghosts and spirits, I could swear she was watching me during my performance of Anna in The King and I. Maybe these are God's ways of assuring us that He's still there even when we don't believe it. And, my dear friend, there may be times when you won't believe it.
Remember my friend, my sister, I love you.
4 comments:
That is exactly how it feels to lose someone, especailly the person who gave you life. My mother died nearly two years ago in January and the loss is still there. The other day a lady at church told me while I was crying in her arms that she doesn't cry about death because their (the dead) are where their suppose to be. I don't cry because she is gone I cry because I still miss her! I know where she is but I still want her back some days, and not just the holidays. May the next few weeks bring peace to your friend and her family and all of us who are missing loved ones.
Candy
You have captured the darkness and the aloneness of grief, yet testify to the inexplicable and very unique glimmers of comfort that shimmer in the midst of it. This can only come from one who has walked the walk. Kudos to you, and may that "peace that passes all understanding" comfort your friend.
That was very beautiful,Thank you so much.We will always remember how loving and caring she was.She was a Mother to me also for a lot of years she will be truly missed but not forgotten.Heaven gained an angel.
Thanks Again
I recently lost my mother. I am still reeling from the loss. You captured my feelings, my pain and sorrow.. I miss her so much. I have cried so much these last few days.. Thank you for your words of insite. I will pray for this family..
Post a Comment