I didn’t think I needed to write any more about John. I wrote 6 pages of tribute and delivered them in front of 150+ yesterday at a memorial celebration in his own backyard. But here I am, still thinking about him and his life and his untimely passing.
Death affects us in a myriad of ways. Or “in myriad ways”, as my grammarian friend would argue. I watched three grown men, speakers I had called to the microphone, battling tears, their throats closing over suppressed sobs as they described their relationships with John.
For my part, I was mostly composed. I’d done a lot of crying at the burial. I felt I had to be strong from my dear best friend, who was sitting nearby, listening carefully to my every word as I talked about her lifelong soulmate. I wanted to be upbeat, and yet I wanted to do justice to John and his all-too-short time with us.
Here is the rub. When someone dies unexpectedly, away from you, you lose the chance to say goodbye. You don’t get to resolve anything that may have been waiting to be resolved. You can’t ask questions, clarify thoughts, make forgiveness or acquire important information. Whatever any of us needed to know from John is now lost. It’s like a shocking, slap in the face to discover that simple facts like the password to his email account is unknown.
How can one deal with such sudden loss? When my parents died, it was, both times, not unexpected. They were both in their eighties, had lived full lives, and had been ill for months. Goodbyes, although difficult, were carried out in incremental phases, day by day. And while it was infinitely difficult to let them go, it was with a process that could happen over a graduality of time.
In contrast, John’s death was an instant in time. While it is hard on his survivors to reconcile his death, it was surely easier on him than to waste away in a hospital bed, in pain and misery. John went out doing what he loved–playing racquetball. He never intended to hurt anyone with his passing, but he was committed to living his life his way. For that, I credit him.
When the last mourners left yesterday, I’m sure my friend mentally leaned back against that front door and made a virtual slide to the floor. For today is really Day One of building a new life. I have the utmost faith that she will be okay. She is strong, capable, and still surrounded by love. And somehow, if I know my dear best buddy, she will still be communicating with John on some level.
Maybe now I am finished writing about John. But I am not done thinking about him, will never be. I liked the way he always spoke his mind. I liked the way he always greeted me with a kiss and hug, made me feel like my visit was important to him. I liked how Donna always complained that I more often saw things John’s way than hers. Maybe that is why we are such good friends.