Well, Happy New Year! I certainly did not expect this grief journey to take me to the new year, but here I am. This blog has opened my eyes to how much loss I have experienced, but stay with me, this series is almost over (I was about to write my grief is almost over, but we have learned anything, we have learned grief is never really over).
A while back I mentioned my friend Sandy. We met in our sophomore year in high school and had been best friends since. She was my Ethel to my Lucy. My Betty to my Wilma. One of my favorite memories was while in high school, at lunch, we were trying to figure out how old we were going to be in the year 2000. We were Prince fans and were planning on parting like it was 1999. When we realized we would be 35, we were so mad! We just knew we were going to be too old to go anywhere or do anything. We were mad for DAYS! I still laugh when I think of that. Our friendship came to an end at my mother’s wake, suddenly with no time to process it. Left me angry, sad, bewildered and betrayed. I tried reaching out to her many times to no avail.
Fast forward eight years. I had just opened my laptop and her obituary popped up on my high school Facebook page. It simply took my breath away and I broke down. I was at my daughter’s house and I couldn’t even tell her what was wrong. She came to look for herself. After reading the arrangements, my daughter gently told me that it happened a year ago.
For the next few days I cried until my sides hurt. Until I couldn’t breathe. Until my eyes burned. She walked out of my life at the worst time in my life, why was acting like this? I realized I was grieving the loss of hope. I always held out hope we would one day reconnect.
Side Note: I worked with a psychologist once at the nursing home. She would get irritated when family members would constantly tell their loved one with dementia how they are not going home. She would tell them (and me), “Let them pack. Let them think they are going home. That is what gets them through the day. They forget shortly after packing and begin to unpack. Never take away their hope. Without hope, they have nothing.”
I have carried that with me since. And that is what I was grieving. Sandy’s death took away my hope of ever regaining the friendship we had. Of course, I missed her and the 35 year friendship we had. But that hope. I didn’t know how to maneuver. On top of that, I wanted to reach out to her mom, but she had moved. I was a year late, couldn’t find her family and felt like I was in a vortex spin. I fell into a deep depression. I fell into darkness. It was true. Without hope, there is nothing. I couldn’t sleep, or when I did, had night terrors. I found the more I talked about it, the less people understood so I retreated into my own head. I went on with my life tormented by the fact I did not know how to get hope back. I had never lost hope like this before, and I had no hope for anything. It scared me. I was silently miserable. I was blinded by this new kind of loss that I had not encountered and could not figure out how to maneuver.
One day a high school friend sent me Sandy’s mom’s new address. I don’t know how she found it or how she knew how much I needed it (Divine intervention), but I called Sue, her mom, and we set a date to meet. I went to her new home. Sue, Sandy and Sandy’s brother all moved in together. I saw Sandy’s Precious Moments collections which made me smile. Sue and I talked for hours. I cried as she told me how sick Sandy was. She was very ill at my mom’s wake. She was going in for abdominal surgery the next day. From there things went downhill. She got an infection, 80% of her stomach had to be removed, onced that was all cleared up, she fell and broke her hip, she ended up in a nursing home for rehab. Once home and healing, her mother went to a wake, came home and in a few days, all three were in the hospital with Covid. Because Sandy already had previous health issues, she ended up on life support, eventually taken off and passed away. Sue said the first thing her brother said was, “We have to find Joyce.”
Reconnecting with Sandy’s family was the only thing that helped me heal from the loss of hope. It is something I hope nobody ever loses; ever.
Next week: Turning 60
Until Next Time…
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