The Uses of Grief

A friend of mine died today. We knew that today, specifically, would be the day of her death because she chose it herself a year-and-a-half ago, and she is not a person easily dissuaded once she’d made her mind up.

We were reasonably close about fifteen years ago, but then we spun off into our own directions and hadn’t had a great deal of contact in the intervening years aside from occasionally bumping into her at parties and interacting on social media. I’d long admired her spirit, energy, intelligence, enthusiasm, joy. When she would occasionally write me to tell me that my head was up my ass with something I’d written, I took it seriously and usually heeded her advice.

We hadn’t been in close contact for some time and so you can imagine my shock when I, very recently, read about her plan to end her life at a physician-assisted Right-to-Die facility in Switzerland. It turns out that a round of breast cancer that she’d thought was treated and in remission had re-emerged as stage four bone cancer and there was next to no hope. With extreme medical treatment, she could potentially extend her life a bit, but her quality of life would be diminished severely.

What she did instead, was plan out a year-and-a-half of world travel — seeing everything she’d always wanted to, all first class — “like a boss!” she’d said — that would end with her assisted death in Switzerland, this morning.
She faced down cancer and took control of the end of her life. It’s the bravest and wisest thing I’ve ever seen.

She had a glorious 16 months; every picture I saw of her trips around the world was brimming with enthusiasm and joy, and life.
Last night was her last night on this planet. By the time I got out of bed this morning, she wasn’t here with us anymore.

So what do we do with this, this grief we feel? What’s its point? I, for one, had to face some regrets. Why hadn’t I stayed in better touch with her? Was there something I could’ve done to make this… easier for her? None of that is really useful, but it’s honest and I felt it.
I also had some fear. I have cancer. It’s well under control and my urologist is content to monitor it at such a low grade, but I have had some shifts in the diagnosis that have caused the doctor to watch me a little more aggressively. Please understand, this is an extremely low risk cancer, nothing even remotely like what my friend went through, but I am more viscerally facing questions of what I would do if something more dangerous popped up in my body than I would be if I had a perfectly clean bill of health.
With this I can look to my friend’s controlled exit with inquisitive and admiring eyes. Maybe, if something unexpected were to happen, I could use her stars to plot a course. I am terrified of the prospect, but perhaps a little less so for having such a noble soul exploring and marking the way ahead.

What my friend went through is not ABOUT me — I don’t need nor deserve any “sorry for your loss” statements because I had barely been in her life for a decade or more — but I believe that she would want it to be useful, because that’s the kind of person she was. Here is what she wrote and posted publicly a few hours before she walked away from this life — not “was taken” or “slipped away,” but with thoughtfulness and compassion and determination, she opened a door and stepped out of it deliberately and under her own power.

I believe that we all come from an energy source that is similar to a giant ball of light. We are all one: we are all the same. We break off into smaller pieces to live our very different experiences through our physical bodies, doing and wanting very different things. In living these differences, we grow individually. When we come back to the ball of light, we grow collectively. 
I believe this is the light that people see in near death experiences. When they see loved ones who’ve passed on, it’s their minds’ way of recognizing the homecoming to source. The return to our original family. 
Because of my beliefs, I do not fear death. Yes, I am sad because I grieve the life that I am leaving behind and all my loved ones. But I know deep in my heart I will be with all of you again. 
Don’t wait for a “better” time to do the things you want to do. Seek joy. Keep growing. Love deeply and often. Take nothing and no one for granted. 
See you in the light. 
Love always,
Leah

In some ways this could be viewed as her challenge to live life with more gusto and courage, but that’s not how I take it. I take it as a gentle invitation to the dance — she was such a dancer — that is this life. No matter how sad or isolated we may feel, we belong here, living. We’re part of this world whether we embrace it, or are present for it, or not. All the joy, all the sadness, all the melancholy and delight; we’re travelling through it and we can use it to enrich ourselves and our collective self, or we can lower our gaze and try to hide. We can careen, or we can dance.

And when the dance is done, we can walk ourselves off of the dance floor.

Goodbye, Leah.