I bought a new plant the other day. An African violet. It’s
a small plant, pretty but somewhat unimpressive. I’m not really a plant person,
but I couldn’t feel better until I did it. I know… bizarre.
I’ll explain.
We got some profoundly sad news the other day. A friend of
ours, and a colleague of my husband, lost his battle to cancer. The news
shouldn’t have been the shock it was, if I think about it rationally. He had
been battling for many years and he was running out of treatments to keep him
going. But we saw him a few weeks ago and he looked ok. Well, not really like
his old self, but sort of ok. He certainly didn’t seem to be nearing the end of
the fight. It turns out that that he had
had a turn for the worse shortly after our visit and the family was
intentionally quiet about it. They wanted to handle it without “help” from
outsiders. I can’t say I blame them, to
be honest. Sometimes help isn’t really helpful.
Ironically, it wasn’t the cancer that got him. It was the
infections and unfortunate side effects from all the treatments that were his
final enemy.
I learned of his death by accident. I found his daughter’s Facebook
post when I was having a cup of coffee, an hour before picking my kids up from
preschool. I hate crying in public and it took until the end of the day, when I
had some time alone, to truly take it in. I became instantly obsessed with
buying a plant, a beautiful living thing, to replace the soul that had been
lost.
Over the weekend, we went to the family home to pay respects.
The funeral was the day before, but I had been unable to go, with such short
notice. My husband was there to represent us. He informed me that it was a packed
house. So many people had felt the need to say goodbye. That really speaks to the person he was, and
he will be very missed by so many.
And as terrible as it may sound, I’m happy for him. In a backwards
sort of way. When we were informed of
his last few weeks, I felt more than a little sick. I actually found myself
glad that he hadn’t survived because he would never really have “lived” again.
He wouldn’t have played with his grandkids. He wouldn’t have hung out at the
pool with his family. He was an active
guy, he loved life. The life he would have lived, had he survived, would not
have been truly living. It would have been worse, for everyone.
My husband and I watch Buffy, on Netflix. I know… we’re
geeks. This is not new information to me. We are currently on one of the later
seasons and we are just past the point where Buffy dies, sacrificing herself
for her sister. Her friends, believing she is in hell, bring her back using
magic. (I know… the writers couldn’t have a Buffy series without Buffy. Their
plot was below standards. But that’s not my point.) My point is that Buffy,
once brought back, is a disaster. When she decides to come forth and be honest,
she confesses that she had not been in hell. She had been in heaven. And she
had been happy there. The sadness had been limited to those left behind.
Despite being part of a cheesy, substandard plot, that
confession rings as truth to me. It’s the way we felt when my grandpa passed
away. He was ready and it was time for him to go. To be peaceful.
So, what’s my point? My point is this.
Andy, we miss you. Being at your house without you wasn’t
right. We hope that you are peaceful, distanced from the difficult and
stressful medical invasions of your life for so long. We’ll help take care of
your family, check in on them to make sure they get the support they need and
hug them when they need hugs.
You go on, now. Rest.
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