I started this last week with the sad news of the passing of
my dear friend's step-father the day before - which was her wedding day. Her
beautiful, emotional, and touching wedding that he was supposed to attend, but
didn't. I ended the week yesterday afternoon finding out about a dear family
friend's tragic murder in Sequim, Washington (along with her dog) 3 days ago by
a young man she knew well. He was recently diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia,
hospitalized on Tuesday because of an incident where he attacked his mother
with a pencil. He had been released the next day from where he went directly to
Cynthia's house.
I am stunned to know someone who was not just murdered, but
viciously so. I am beyond heartbroken that two families I know have lost a
loved one unexpectedly. I am heartbroken that a friend has to start her
marriage under such a dark cloud, and that another family has to grieve a loved
one lost at the hands of another.
One thing that has made me take a step back is reading
comments about the young man who murdered Cynthia. He is sick. He needs help.
He needs medication. What he did is wrong. But he is SICK. People are attacking
him and calling him names. They probably don't know about his diagnosis but it
underscores how quick we are to judge. How quick we are to misunderstand.
Death is so final. I know this brings out a "Duh".
But until someone in your inner circle dies, you can't understand the depth of
that word "final." I didn't even understand completely despite the
painful death of a close neighbor in 1996 from bone cancer and another very
close family friend passing in 1999. To me, death was something that happened to
others. Of course I knew I'd die one day, but it was in the abstract. When my
mom died, mortality punched me in the face. Now, I know. And the
depth of the word "final" keeps deepening because, at least,
initially, in the first year or two (maybe three, I don't know) there are
constant reminders: the empty car you have to sell, the clothes that need to be
packed and given away, the books and furniture that need to be given away, bank
accounts that need to close... I see all this and think, This will be my stuff
one day. My kids will have to do this one day. My kids will feel this one day.
I want to say something inspirational but it all feels
cliched. Life is hard. It is unfair. It gives relentlessly and take away
mercilessly. We can feel or we can push away. I have mentally aged a lot since
my mom's passing last year, and with each subsequent death, I understand more
deeply that all we truly have is but this moment right now. Then, it's gone.
And we have a new moment. Then, that's gone. And so the clock ticks.
We're so fond of compartmentalizing our lives, prioritizing
what is most important to us. For many, it is money at the top of that
"most important" list which then dictates every decision in order to
reach that goal. I remember the day my mom died, I desperately kept counting
the few dollars I found in her purse convincing myself that if I kept counting
her money, she'd come back. Money is tangible. You need it. If I just held her money in my hand, she'd
be coming back, right? But the fact is, no matter the way of death, you take
nothing with you. No body, no car, no money. In the next place, these things
aren't needed. Or maybe there's something better.
I can't make these families' pain go away as much I would
like to do so. I told my husband last night when I broke the news to him about
Cynthia that grieving is such a horrible feeling that I wish I could protect
everyone I know from that dark, lonely pain. But I can't. So all I can hope to
do is hold my wish deep in my heart for these families to find truth and
honesty within themselves to help them cope with this journey. I also hope
deeply that we, as a society, get serious about mental health. No one deserves
the kind of death Cynthia got. She loved life. She loved to travel. She loved
people. A big part of her reminded me of my mom. I hope she is flying free,
laughing, smiling, forgiving.
