Living and grieving co-exist. I was reminded of this yet again, in a palpable way, while on a recent trip to Scotland. I was visiting my daughter, Maya, who is studying in Glasgow for the semester. It was the second morning of my trip. I awoke to a string of frantic WhatsApp texts, from friends in my women’s group, about Angela, one of our intimate group of 10. The most recent text, written hours before, said, “She’s gone.” It was followed by a slew of broken hearted emojis.
I could not breathe much less wrap my head around those shocking words. I just saw her in the hospital, only days before I left San Diego. We knew her cancer prognosis was serious but none of us thought that death was at her door. I looked at my daughter, asleep next to me in my hotel bed, took my phone into the bathroom to track what happened, and sobbed.
Exactly one week before, the night before her scheduled surgery, I went with several other women in our group to visit Angela in the hospital. She was dressed in regular clothes, walking around, and looking as alive and beautiful as always. We talked about the surgery and how we could support her in her recovery. The seven of us seemed more worried and tense than Angela.
Then, we made a huddle with Angela, wrapped our arms around each other, and sang a melodic healing prayer. At one point, I glanced up at Angela, and saw her intently listening, with an angelic smile on her face. Though she knew (we did not) that her cancer had metastasized, there was not a hint of fear or sorrow on her face. She appeared to be fully taking in every second of her life. When the prayer was over, we stayed in our huddle and silently swayed. None of us wanted to let go.
When I read the shocking news, I briefly thought about returning home to go to her funeral. I was double crushed to miss it. But Maya, Tara (my oldest who was soon joining us), and I would have also been crushed if I left. My compromise, supported by my daughters, was to return to San Diego a few days early, in order to attend the last night of Shiva (a Jewish memorial gathering in the days following one’s burial.)
Despite Angela’s passing, my week in Scotland was wonderful. The varied scenery and topography were breathtaking. I treasured the time with my young adult daughters, perhaps even more than usual, as Angela’s death drilled into me the preciousness and unpredictability of time. We laughed, shared “adult” stories, ate, drank, had deep conversations, and gasped together as I nervously navigated roundabouts and single-lane, two-way roads, while driving on the left-hand side of the road. An unexpected highlight, was our giddy time eating and talking in the car, while waiting hours for help to change a pot-hole demolished tire. None of us got upset or complained. It was what it was.
And, I often cried when I thought about Angela. On one particular drive, in the awe-inspiring Isle of Sky, Maya, our navigator and DJ, played some soulful Celtic music. The combined sounds and sights unleashed a barrage of tears. My daughters were old enough to understand that I needed to cry, and held space for me to let them roll. As I cried, I breathed in the spacious air and looked at the billowy clouds in a rare sunny sky. I was living and grieving.
Grief is part of life. It is inevitable. If we are grieving, we are living, though it can be easy to get lost in a cloud of detached grief. Amidst my sorrow over Angela, I felt even more grateful for my life, my fortunate opportunities, and my treasured time with Tara and Maya. Angela did the same in the waning days of her life. I watched her joking around with her kids in the hospital, all the while knowing her remaining time on earth would be brief.
May you all remember to create space to live as you navigate life’s inevitable losses. There is room for both.