If you are lucky enough in this life, you will find a person who is “The Friend.”
She is the first person outside of the family you call if you have good news, if you are making an important decision or if you have the blues. I’ve known my friend for 50 years and we journeyed together through early marriage, pregnancies, childbirth, child rearing, job changes, triumphs, disappointments and retirement.
We once drove to Clingman’s Dome, admired the beauty of it, then pulled off the side of the road to eat sugared plums and drink wine. I’m sure we both secretly thought it all tasted terrible, but we persevered because we were sophisticated ladies. Once, while hiking, we assumed we were alone on the trail as my friend described in detail why her husband liked her new bathing suit. Laughing, we rounded a corner and discovered a group of interested hikers who had undoubtedly heard every word.
For the last three years, my friend has been fighting an illness that has grown progressively worse. During last week’s hospital stay, she chose to stop all treatments, go home and rest. This was not a surprise outcome, but it was no less heartbreaking.
The day her husband told me of her decision, I kept myself busy; not giving myself time to think. The next day I made myself face her choice, made myself acknowledge that death isn’t necessarily something in the future. Death is an unfathomable, painful fact of life. A few days later, surrounded by her family, my friend gently passed away at home.
One of the best retirement speeches I’ve heard was given by an excellent teacher who suggested that life is about becoming. She equated life to the several life cycles of the insect that becomes a butterfly. The speech was thoughtful and was one with which I agree. We become a friend, we become older and death is also a form of becoming. The loved one still exists, but their existence is in another form, they become something else.
Early grief brings tears of longing, wishing our person was still with us. As time passes and we become accustomed to that pain, we can begin to think about things our loved one said or did, or what opinion they would have about our current situation. This is one way they become. They become because we remember them and can learn from them still. Whatever form of existence they take, we have them, we have them still.
I subscribe to a few daily meditations and a recent one discussing grief suggested that instead of mourning the loss of our person, we should focus on the blessings we received through that person. This must be a process. I know the blessings my friend brought to me, but it’s hard for me to concentrate on those blessings now. I know that as I continue working through my grief, the blessings will float more frequently to the top.
One of my very favorite hymns, Precious Lord, Take my Hand, was written in 1932 by musician/evangelist Thomas Andrew Dorsey. Mr. Dorsey was grieving the childbirth death of his wife and infant son.
Filled with pain, the words to this hymn came to him. Precious Lord, Take My Hand – Cape Town Youth Choir: here. Listening to the hymn, I think, “Yes, Lord, please, please, take my hand and let my other hand be taken by my husband or, perhaps, the invisible hand of my dear friend.” We hold hands as we work through our grief. We hold hands until we reach a place where our memories become a blessing, become something we cherish, become something from which we can still learn, and something that once again becomes joy.
Cindy Arp, teacher/librarian, retired from Knox County Schools. She and husband Dan live in Heiskell.
