Last month, I found out that a friend who lives in another state had been battling cancer for a year, and was in hospice. Two days ago, Robin died, leaving behind a devoted husband and a millennial daughter.
Grief is demanding. It draws my attention to the loss at hand. When I first heard that Robin was at the end of her life, I read every Caring Bridge journal entry to understand what she had gone through for the last 12 months. I re-read our email exchanges going back 15 years. Our friendship was largely virtual, but I recalled the handful of times that we met in person and looked for photos of our time together.
I wanted to soak in Robin’s essence and hold on to the vibrant presence that was her hallmark.
Grief releases its grip with a meaningful good-bye. Last month, I wanted to comment on the Caring Bridge platform, as this was the family’s preferred means of communicating with Robin’s many friends. But it didn’t seem like the right vehicle for everything I wanted to say. So instead, I asked her husband if it would be okay to make a recording for Robin. He gave an enthusiastic thumbs up. I wrote a letter and then read it out loud. I shared the stew of emotions that was in me, after hearing that she was dying. I talked about what I loved and admired about her. I assured her that her work was done, and that she had done it well. I thanked her for all that she had given me.
I felt at peace after sending the recording.
Grief gets integrated and absorbed, when it is shared with a community. In lieu of attending a memorial service hundreds of miles away, I reached out to a Love Grove, and asked for prayers for Robin’s family and close friends, to comfort them in their loss. I am writing this post to be shared across my community, in response to a simple note to myself, “Grieve Robin’s passing.”
Thank you for witnessing by reading this post. It means I’m not alone in my grief. That’s transformative.
Photo by Pixabay
Robin interviewed me for her podcast last year, before she became ill. At the end of our time together, she warmly said, “Alright, my friend. That’s a wrap.”
Indeed.
You gave me one last gift, dear Robin. Thank you for teaching me about grief.
I am so glad you found out about Robin’s illness when there was still an opportunity to say farewell. I’ve seen it in a variety of places and similar statements — Grief is the tax for having loved. So, even as grief can ravage, those memories of loving moments can heal. Even in tears, there are moments of laughter. My iris were gorgeous this year, causing me to post on a Facebook page still open for a friend who has passed away. She is the only person I have ever known who belonged to some sort of iris club. I posted on her page in the hopes her daughter would see it. A number of my iris were rescued, with the realtor’s permission, from a neighbor’s yard after she passed away and the yard was being emptied of flowers in preparation for the house sale. When they bloom, I say a prayer for her family that they are at peace. So, when grief rears up, I eventually look for underlying love.
Thanks, Loretta, for your wisdom and stories.
“Grief is the tax for having loved.” Oh, so true! Love and grief are inextricably tied.
And what a beautiful story about flowers blooming and your friend who has passed. Reminds me of the peonies in the front yard of my mom’s old house. When it blooms, I think of her.
I resonate with many of your blogposts, Carol, but this one really hit home. What beautiful lessons you learned about grief, and what a generous gift you gave Robin before she left this life.
We will all experience grief at some point, and wise teachers such as you help us grapple with it. Thank you.
I will dry my eyes now and watch the sun come up for yet another luminous day of being human.
Awww, thanks Laurie, for your kind words and your big heart. You are a wise teacher as well. I appreciate how you let yourself feel your emotions deeply. And thank you for the reminder that each day is a gift. Sending you a big hug!
What a lovely way to honor Robin–and your grief, Carol. Thank you so much for sharing.
I lost my youngest son to suicide almost three years ago. I didn’t really know grief until his death. It was overwhelming. Once the shock wore off (it took a long time), I still felt like I was drowning in waves. Sometimes I still do. I’ve learned how to be more compassionate. I’ve learned that the trite statements, while well-meaning, don’t help at all. So I’ve changed my responses when I encounter someone who is grieving. I’ve also learned that there is no process–the loss of my son will forever be with me and has forever changed me. I have also learned that if I do not keep my son’s memory alive by talking about him and sharing stories, no one else will. I want to let people know it’s OK to talk about him with me. I need that. I need to know he is not forgotten. The people who have talked about him with me, including some of his closest friends, have reminded me what a legacy he has left in his short 22 years of life.
Thank you, again, Carol, for sharing your grief. I pray for Robin and for you.
Thank you, Stephanie, for your courage in sharing your experience with grief. I’m so sorry for the loss of your son. It feels like he is a teacher for you, in life and death. Your vulnerability is inspiring and helps me and others understand more about how to honor those who have passed. I am grateful for your willingness to write with such so honesty and depth. Sending you love and light.
My sympathies for the loss of your friend Robin. Your loving choice to record a message both acknowledging how much she mattered to you and releasing her from this life well lived was very moving. Thank you, my friend.
Thanks, Sia, for your wonderful words. I think it’s natural to want to feel like you mattered, especially at the end of one’s life. Makes me realize that this is a gift that we can give each other, long before our last days.
In my recording for Robin, I talked about receiving the harvest of the seeds that she had sown, rather than to keep tilling the soil. She was frustrated by not being able to communicate, after she had lost the ability to find words and express herself. It’s a grace to make your purpose be to receive the love of others and that’s what I was encouraging Robin to do.
This is a lesson that I’m trying to absorb for myself–to shift my focus from the doing/giving to the being/receiving.
I am so sorry for the loss of your dear friend! Thank you for sharing your journey through grief, which is loving and meaningful, as well as touching and inspiring. In the face of heartbreak, you gave your friend the beautiful gift of love. You have given us a pathway to follow when we grieve someone we love. Thank you. Jo Scott
Thanks, Jo, for your thoughtful comments. I’m so glad to know you!
Really beautiful post Carol, love the way you were able to feel into what felt right to you in recording your letter to her, how very special <3 And thx for sharing to inspire us all to honor our grief, however it may show up or want to be expressed.
Thanks, Rimi, for your comments. The recording was a suggestion from a wise friend. This friend also likes to say, “We are better together.” It’s so true, especially when we are grieving.