The Dividing Lines of Loss

A few weeks ago, at a party to ring in the New Year, I entered for the first time the home of a woman whom I've only recently begun to know. I'd heard that she was a fairly recent widow (she lost her husband a few years ago), but it wasn't until I attended this party that I got a sense of her late husband. Besides the fact that there were books and knick-knacks that clearly belonged to him still on the bookshelves, many people mentioned him to me. "Did you know ____?" they asked. When I said no, they sighed and shared a small memory. One person told me that he was a lot of fun, had a great sense of humor, and always lit up the room. Another person said he was "the consummate gentleman." A third person told me the last time they saw him, he'd ordered a martini and joked about it possibly being his last because you just never know. Even though it was a joyous party, I couldn't help but feel the presence of his absence... a man whom most people at this party knew and missed, and whom I found myself wishing I could have met. The evening reminded me of a particularly painful but somewhat subtler aspect of loss that is sometimes overlooked... the loss of being able to share the person with others. When my mother died, I used to categorize people into two groups: People Who Knew Her vs. People Who Had Not Known Her. I lost her when I was 22, so the first group was comprised mostly of family members, friends of the family, and childhood friends who used to casually say hi to her when they'd come over for sleep-overs, or when she was heading out to grocery shop while we hung out. To this day, these people are dearer to me than I can articulate, and the bond I feel towards them is palatable. To the second group (people who did not know her), I would always try to explain who she was. Once when I was working abroad for a short period during our first year together, I wrote Kaz a long letter describing my mother:

My mom is on my mind tonight. I really wish you could have met her.  It’s always tough when I meet new people that I care about, and I can’t introduce them to her or vice-versa. To not be able to share my mother with someone I love really hurts. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to introduce her to you now. I mean, I know I’ve talked about her before, but I’m not sure if I’ve accurately described who she was. 

She had a great sense of humor, and was goofy like me. I think we would all have laughed together a lot. She was young at heart, open-minded and curious about the world. She loved to travel, meet new people and experience new things. When I was a kid, she was always dragging me to some new place to visit, an art exhibition or museum or independent movie theater. She was an avid reader, and LOVED music. She would have loved that you know so much about music and have access to it.  

She was a great role model in many ways, not the least of which in how to deal with adversity, how to keep going no matter what, how to not give up hope, how to “maintain” like you’re always telling me (she would have loved that motto).  She went through so much—her body was frail—but her will was incredibly strong. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking of her now. I’m so stressed out and wish I could call her and hear her voice. She actually spoke in somewhat of a whisper due to the multiple tracheotomies during her heart surgeries. Each one messed with her vocal chords, so she really only had a “voice” in the morning, or after naps, the rest of time it was a whisper. 

Whenever I was down, she would tell me to “think happy thoughts,” or she'd encourage me to draw something, or write a story. She was always encouraging me to express myself and write about what I know. She was a great listener too. It was one of her greatest attributes, that she could listen without judgment and give good advice. And she was so loving. Even when we didn’t get along, I knew that she loved me and would always love me, no matter what. I know that you and I grew up differently—me with siblings, you as an only child—but on this we can relate, no? Our mothers were there for us through thick and thin (when our fathers were not). They loved us unconditionally and were the people that we could always count on. 

I’ll be honest. Sometimes I feel jealous of you because your mother is still alive. You’re so lucky. Losing my mom was, and still is, the biggest thing that has ever happened to me, and I miss her every day. The pain of losing her never really goes away. It just subsides, so that it’s not at the surface. I hope you don’t mind me sharing all of this you. I know she would have loved you, and vice-versa. Anyway, thanks for listening...

Kaz's death, three years after I wrote that letter, created another dividing line. Like with my mother, the people who knew him hold a special place in my heart. The few people who knew both my mother and Kaz... well, they are the rare gems in my life. Maybe because of these losses, I'm more sensitive to the desire that I see in others to share the essence of their lost loved ones. I recognize the urge to try and communicate who the person was, what they were about, how they sounded, dressed, moved. Like the  person who invited me into their home recently and revealed a guest bedroom they'd decorated specifically to honor their late mother. Maybe that sounds strange to some, but I totally got it. Walking into this room, which even smells different than other rooms in the house, I immediately sensed the essence of a feminine, kind-hearted, intelligent, classy woman... a lady in every sense of the word. I was moved by the care in which the room had been lovingly put together, every detail considered, and my heart surged with compassion for the person who'd created it. We all struggle to keep our loved ones alive in some way... if not alive, then at least remembered. Parents try to explain to their children who their grandparents were... show them photos, tell them stories. It's never satisfying enough. Nothing can sum up the whole of a person, and often people don't have the patience to listen. But we do what we can, learn to accept the limitations... and perhaps (if we're lucky) we find other ways to express the person's character.