Updated: July 13, 2020
Originally Published: March 10, 2015
As I navigated the well-known street close to my home, I tried to avoid thinking about my destination while scanning for the recognizable sign. Funeral homes are those establishments we see daily but prefer to remain blissfully unaware of their exact locations. We strive to avoid needing that knowledge.
Upon parking, I hesitated before stepping through the entrance. A warm, welcoming man sprang from an armchair to guide me to the guestbook, where I awkwardly signed my name before accepting a card bearing a passage from the Bible alongside her name. I had only met Lila once, in passing, but she was the mother of a dear friend. I swiftly entered the main viewing area and searched for my friend, finally spotting the back of her head.
I nearly skipped the visitation that evening. The intimacy of such occasions can feel overwhelming, and since I didn’t know Lila well, I pondered attending only the funeral service the following day. However, earlier that day, I made the decision to go. My friend might need my support. I understood how crucial it was to be there for her during this challenging time.
Fortunately, I haven’t attended many wakes, so they still leave me feeling unsteady. My gaze was drawn to the video montage of Lila’s life, complemented by the vibrant flowers enveloping her casket. The room was aglow with warmth, radiating happiness from the floral arrangements. A large photograph of Lila laughing, captured in a candid moment, adorned one corner.
When I finally located my friend, she turned to embrace me tightly, tears streaming down her face. I wrapped my arms around her, allowing her to release her grief. Her mother had been battling lung cancer for a year, and that year had been filled with goodbyes and moments of resilience. I could sense her exhaustion.
Before the handsome young priest delivered his eulogy, it was easy to smile and laugh, pretending we weren’t gathered to begin the painful process of saying goodbye. We exchanged pleasantries and chatted about our children. However, as the priest spoke and we faced the casket, my friend’s composure began to unravel. I could feel the weight of reality pressing down on her as her posture straightened, and her eyes filled with tears. I placed my hand gently on her shoulder, recognizing that this moment marked the true beginning of her loss. After a year of farewells, it felt as if a door was suddenly being slammed shut.
Having lost someone dear to me to metastatic cancer, I understood that even when you know the end is coming, the finality of death feels abrupt—like a sudden slap or an ambush. As the priest spoke, I watched the slideshow of Lila’s life unfold, each image triggering tears—an instinct as automatic as a reflex: there she was as a child, a young woman, a mother, and a grandmother. Those images represented a life that had come to a close. In the snapshots of a woman I hardly knew, I saw reflections of my own life as both a daughter and a mother. These moments, fleeting in real-time, gathered together told the story of a woman who had left a lasting legacy.
My friend turned towards me, her voice a hushed whisper laced with desperation. “This can’t be happening. This isn’t my mom. This isn’t real.” I clutched her hand tightly, alarmed at the thought she might flee her seat. I didn’t fault her; the room felt stifling. Even though Lila wasn’t my mother, the thought of losing my own mom began to loom large. My relationship with my mother may have its ups and downs, but she is the anchor that helps make sense of life. Just the notion of losing her evoked the same desperation I saw in my friend’s wild eyes and restless hands.
In that moment, sitting beside my friend as she grappled with her loss, I felt the tides shifting—the relentless passage of time, how fleeting it all is. In one moment, we’re children; in the next, we’re young adults, and if fortunate, we become mothers, and then grandmothers. Eventually, our loved ones gather in somber rooms, sharing stories about us with tears and cracking voices, as our stories inevitably reach their conclusions.
I didn’t need to ponder who the bell tolled for that evening. I wept alongside my friend—for all of us. I mourned the beauty of existence, the journey we all share, and the certainty of an ending. I grieved for the inevitable day when I would be left behind and for those I would leave behind. I realized that in the upcoming chapters of my life, it would be the people beside me—both literally and figuratively—who would help me navigate the toughest moments. Loss is unavoidable; I know it’s coming for me too, yet I’m not prepared for it—not at all. Can anyone truly be ready? And the thought of my children facing such loss fills me with dread.
Once again, the message reverberated in my mind: In the end, all we have are our people. They are what truly matters. As I left that wake, I felt an overwhelming urge to embrace my mother, my friends, my husband, and my children. We bid farewell to Lila that night, but through that goodbye, I felt as though I was saying goodbye to something larger. The chill of realization has lingered, and I wonder if it ever truly fades once you’ve experienced it.
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In summary, the essence of life lies in our connections with others. Through shared moments of joy and sorrow, we come to understand that our relationships are what sustain us. The inevitable nature of loss reminds us to cherish those we love.
Keyphrase: The importance of relationships in coping with loss
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