The Heavy
The "C" word. Arguably more offensive these days than the F-bomb, although the combination of the two seems to be a choice way to express the collective hatred for this disease: #fuckcancer.
Over the past month, I've spent more time in prayer and sending reiki to patients and caregivers than ever before. I'm at an age where I'm no longer sheltered from devastating loss. Aside from a college roommate who tragically died in a car acident, my younger years constituted a pretty charmed life. I still consider myself very fortunate, but having an empathic heart means that this season of morbid illness and grief has shaken me.
Even so, there is something about the grief I'm experiencing that I would describe as 'peripheral'. It's like going to visit someone in the hospital to learn that only family can enter the room. It has created a general heaviness that is difficult to process; a sadness born of sympathy and a strong desire to help the caregivers process their emotions.
It also brings confusion around why I feel such sorrow when I'm not incredibly close to the people dying. I'm sad about their earthly journey ending abruptly and it's not to say that I won't miss them, but my sadness runs deeper for those left in mourning. Caring for others means hurting when they hurt, something I wouldn't change about myself if it meant I were cut off from this depth of connection.
Maybe this all hits harder because of the holiday season, and plans shifted radically for so many families. Even my company's owner, who would begin celebrating Hannukah this week, will instead be sitting shiva for his father. Being sick since Thanksgiving hasn't helped my state of mind either, and I suspect my immune system is a little less resilient given the circumstances.
And yet...
Losing my grandmother, Polly, in 2016 rocked me to my core. I thought at the age of 99 that she might just be immortal. I at least expected to celebrate her 100th birthday, so when she died at 99 years and 9 months old, I felt cheated. At the time, I drank my grief away. It would take another two years for me to end my dysfunctional relationship with alcohol and honor her legacy by writing my memoir.
Attending our Hamilton neighbor Steve's memorial service on Wednesday brought back distinct memories of Polly. The hymns, most of which I still knew by heart, were some of her favorites. At one point, I imagined her in the mezzanine behind us playing the organ, her petite fingers dancing across the keys. The pleasantness of these recollections surprised me. Rather than grief, there was a sweet rememberance of all the things I loved about her, and a hope for this family that they will feel the same in time.
Both my yoga practice and my former 12-step work have instilled in me a healthy level of non-attachment. It allows me to be 'objective', if there is such a thing with loss, and play a supporting role. I don't have to question why these things happened, or mourn intensely. I sent sound bath recordings to the families to play for the patients. I've offered supporting texts with no expectations. The Serenity prayer has been a source of comfort.
I attend another celebration of life in a few weeks. Guaranteed to be as bold and lively of a party as Tirah herself, I look forward to dancing to honor her free spirit (to "Spirit in the Sky", I'm told). I look forward to offering a shoulder to cry on and being a light in the darkness. I look forward to understanding that we all play a part - those who leave, those left behind, and those who love them all.
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