A Closer Look at Loss and Love
Six weeks after the initial quarantine and it feels like a lifetime. Time ceases to hold any meaning. The days of the week don’t exist anymore. Every day blends with the one before, and we can’t help but wonder when this groundhog day will end.
Life before seems to slip beyond the reach of memory, and life to come is uncertain and obscure. Staring into the face of the unknown — as an individual, a society, and a race — is, well, terrifying. And it seems the only thing to do is hope that somehow this sh*tstorm turns out okay.
At the start of this whole thing, I was hyped. I could use a little ‘me’ time, I said. Perhaps we all need some time to take a step back, reflect, learn, and appreciate, I thought. I wrote a post encouraging the use of this time in positive ways, by reflecting on our lives and the people within, emphasizing the way we often take things for granted.
When I think back to that Angela sitting in her hammock, crying tears of joy and marveling at the beauty of life, I almost want to laugh. Not because I think her stupid or naive — though she may be — but because of the stark contrast between then and now. I have cried many tears over the last several weeks, and none of them very happy since that morning in the hammock.
In my last post, I talked about all the people in my life; how they’ve shaped me, and how grateful I am for everyone who has crossed my path. My tribes! My people!
And yet, that’s the very thing that seems to be strained and crumbling right before my eyes.
A few weeks ago, my mom called me to tell me that my grandmother had cancer. The prognosis was grim, and my parents were quick to hop on a plane to Florida. Between them and my Aunt Laura, grandma was under the best of care through her final days.
And on April 27th, five days after her 80th birthday, she closed her eyes on this life for the last time. Her son, daughter, and daughter-in-law were by her side, and though the strain of distance in these harsh times tugs on the ties of a family, I’m grateful beyond words that she wasn’t alone.
We’ve all been preparing for this day, but it doesn’t stop the tears from flowing. Weighed by the heaviness of grief, the heart longs for nothing more than the proximity of family and friends.
I’m so glad I got to spend time with her this winter. It’s hard to believe that she was so close to me not too long ago, and now so, so far forevermore.
I wish you got to meet your great grandson, baby Eric, grandma. I’m sorry the world went crazy and kept us all apart. But I know you’ll be looking over him and the rest of us from your place in the stars. You’ll probably roll over in your grave when I finally finish my tattoo sleeve, but this stubborn ballsiness came from you, soooo…
Death does a strange thing when he takes someone. Everyone with whom this person shared their life with feels his presence, and we find ourselves looking at life as though through a magnifying glass. Suddenly, everything is alight with meaning, vibrant in its own significance.
We look at every tiny detail of our lives, analyzing it carefully to ensure it belongs where it is. Though storms may come over our lives, so too will the sun. The awareness of our own mortality gives us the unique ability to shape our lives and ourselves into what and who we want to be. Time is not our enemy nor our friend. It just is; ever-moving and eternal in its being. We get only a tiny, tiny fraction of it. How we choose to use it is up to us.
My grandma used her time to build a family that loved and supported one another. She made kids who made grandkids who grew up knowing what it was to have a real and connected family, even if in some or many ways we are imperfect.
For this, we must be forever grateful.
To my grandmother, Judith Howell Levy.
You gave us life,
you gave us love,
and you gave us each other.
May we always remember how you made us who we are.
Rest easy, and give Papa George a hug for us.
