“When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time -- the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes -- when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever -- there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.”
― John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany
A Prayer for Owen Meany has been one of my favorite books for nearly 20 years. I named my oldest child Owen, something I decided long before he was born and before Owen became a popular name again. I even got mom to read it; she pronounced it "weird." We didn't really have the same taste in books. But I came across this quote today and liked it.
I've been sporadically attending a grief group on Thursdays and I have a confession to make. I'm terrible at grief group. In fact, I might be a sociopath or something. Last week, there was a woman there and she began to cry. So I'm feeling very sympathetic, and then... she started to talk. It turns out that she lost her mother two years ago. Her mother was 91. She talked about the amazing bond they shared. She talked about her last weeks and her last words. I started crying too, but I discovered that what I really felt was HUGELY PISSED. I toyed with the idea of actually saying out loud something to the effect of "Oh my God! Would you please shut the f--- up!" Nice, right?
Because in my twisted mind, she was awfully damn lucky. My last words with my mom were something like, "can you hear me? Hello? I don't think FaceTime is working..." We both had new iPhones and were trying to figure out FaceTime. We got cut off and when I tried to call her back, it went to voicemail. That was Tuesday. Wednesday we were skiing at Brighton and she texted me "Great photo of the girls." I texted back, "Thanks. It's snowing now." That's all. Thursday morning she died. What would I give for some loving last words? What would I give for TWENTY-SEVEN more years? The list is long.
Of course it's all relative. One of my son's classmates lost his father this weekend to cancer. 46 years before 91. What would his kids give to have them at graduation, weddings, births? My friend Anne lost her 7 year old son to cancer. 84 years too soon? Or my dear sweet Brandy, who lost her daughter at one day? 90+ years that Emily didn't get to have.
I know it's not my place and it's not right for me to judge this woman's loss, but I'm just really jealous of that "extra" time. There is something so awful about accidents. Death from an illness is wrenching; I know. My second dad suffered the last months of his life from prostrate cancer and it was terrible. Somehow though, I feel like I can't argue with an illness. The battle was fought, and the battle was lost. It seems so utterly ridiculous and cruel that my mom paid with her life because of where she stopped her car that morning. Because she stopped for doughnuts. Because she took a different route to the airport. Because, because, because....
Clearly I need to go to the grief group some more. Some of us are a bit more in the anger and bargaining crap than others. Let's just hope I don't smack someone.
