Mrs. Teabody Says One Last Goodbye

Death is a one-way street. All the wishing in the world cannot alter its finality. Loss means sadness and all grief is personal. And while we do wonder and fret over death's impact on all those left behind, what it ultimately comes down to is the fact that someone we love no longer walks this earth. No more texts, no E-mails with laugh-worthy attachments, no wildly inappropriate or absolutely perfect birthday cards, no "you've made my day" surprise visits and no long-planned reunions. Death has taken any and all future plans and crushed them under his foot. And so we grieve. And like the poet says, "It is Margaret you mourn for." We grieve for our own loss, for that gaping chasm in our lives that nothing will ever fill; we grieve for our own mortality. Poet Gerard Manly Hopkins tells us:

Spring and Fall: To a Young Child

Márgarét, are you gríeving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leáves, líke the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Ah!  ás the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By and by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you wíll weep and know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sórrow's spríngs áre the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What heart heard of, ghost guessed:

It ís the blight man was born for,

It is Márgarét you mourn for.

 Some grief is good, perhaps even therapeutic, but too much grief immobilizes us, changes us, makes us less than what we should be.  Many years ago Mrs. Teabody learned a lesson which has served her well - - one might say it has gotten her through many, many times of despair. She passes it along today with the hope it may help someone -- maybe even you, Gentle Reader, -- deal with the death of someone you love.

More than thirty years ago one of my dear friends lost her husband to an especially vile cancer and his was one of the first funerals I ever attended as a contemporary. The husband, Dan, could "get my goat" by deliberately taking the opposite side in every conversation we had. We'd rail at each other dragging flimsy excuses for our arguments from the air, using unfair tactics to prove our points, even going so far as to hit below the belt: "There's no point in trying to argue with a woman," he'd say, and it was all I could do not to kick him in the shins. For Dan, sparring was what he'd come to earth for, and even if I didn't like it, I knew that a good argument was what he expected from me. Sitting at his funeral service in a pew in the church where Dan and I had held so many of our legendary battles, I looked at his inert body and was completely overcome with sadness. I started crying without control. Then mid-sob, a vision of a living Dan appeared just above the piano, just to the right of a framed picture of Christ. He was wearing his familiar yellow and black checked shirt;  his black hair was a swept-back mane. His expression was all but emotionless. He folded his arms against his chest and he looked at me with bemused regard and then spoke:"Really? Really? After all we have been through, you are going to sit in that pew and CRY? Over me?  Really? I had expected a whole lot more from you." And then the vision dissolved and I rejoined the chorus of "In the Garden" no longer in tears:     

That experience has helped so much. Perhaps it will help you. At your very saddest moment, when grief washes over you with the battering force of an ocean wave and tears stream from your eyes and there's no breath left in your lungs, let all those feelings happen. And then as you recover, try hard to think with every ounce of your being what your dear beloved friend would expect from you. Imagine him or her sitting right next to you and let everything you know about that dear soul instruct you in how to handle your grief. What would your mother, your father, your husband, your wife, your dear friend say to you in your despair? What words would come? Listen for them.

 In that reflective moment, you will see your loved one whole again. You will remember that relationship, that history you shared and you will begin the process of honoring your loved one's whole life -- not just the loss, but the hopefulness, optimism, joy and love you felt in that loved one's presence, those moments locked in your memory that not only made that person unique but moments with that person that made you who you are as well.

Last evening I was lucky enough to spend a couple hours with a small group of "kids" who will always, always have a special seat among my memories. They are all so beautiful and vital and intelligent and funny. They are all at the very top of their game and they are in town to say goodbye to one of the brightest stars in our particular firmament. Here's a long-ago photo of quite a few members of that "special" class. And right there in the middle is the "Kristy" they have come to honor.

Kristy Richards meant something to every single one of us who will gather today: classmates or relatives, neighbors or colleagues, patients or sorority sisters. Our spheres of personal grief will hang over our get together large as any planet, but here's what I'm thinking: Yes to tears, yes to sadness, yes to an incredible sense of loss, yes to a whole lot of feeling sorry for ourselves because there will be no more texts, or E-mails, or birthday cards, or unexpected visits or reunions. There will be no light foot across the shop doorway meaning her July birthday was near or that she had driven a rental from Ithaca or NYC to join in a Christmas celebration. The world is less bright, less friendly but we fail in our friendship if we fail to acknowledge all the lessons she has ever taught us.

It is our own shining star - -
As down to earth as donuts
Mind like Mercury
Believer in Truth
In fairness
In kindness
In using your talents
In doing your best.
In giving your best . . .

What Kristy expected of herself was what she expected of all her fellow humans. Of us. And I am surely going to try to follow those lessons. You try, too.