In Loving Memory

I’ve been thinking about death a lot lately.

June 15th marked one year since my uncle lost his battle with Lymphoma. A childhood friend of mine passed away at just 19 on February 17th. And today, June 20th, I found out that Dr. Peggy Heller, former director of the Foundation Year Programme and Contemporary Studies professor at King’s lost her battle with Cancer this morning.

So much death.

As I sit here, reeling from the death of a woman I didn’t know very well, but had the utmost respect for, I’m reminded where I was this time last year. I had come home that summer to the news that two of my older, but still dear friends had passed away after complications with their health. They had lived many wonderful years, left those of us behind with so many lovely stories, and as they were both craftsmen, physical reminders of their life on earth and the things they did for the community. As much as it hurt to say goodbye, it was a little easier. This wasn’t the case with my uncle. Not even fifty years old, Greg Lockwood was stolen away from his family by a disease that has an 87% survival rate. The final two weeks my uncle spent in the hospital were the hardest days I’ve ever had to face. My mood shifted constantly between rage and despair. I exhausted myself trying to stay strong for Greg during the hospital visits, and for my family the rest of the time. The evening I found out he probably wouldn’t make the night was the first time I ever remember crying myself to sleep. By the time my father woke me up that morning to tell me that Greg had died, I was so drained I didn’t have the energy to cry. But I remember thinking that three deaths in just a few months was just too much to handle. It’s taken me the better part of the year to get over my uncle’s death, partly because my healing process was upset by the accidental death of Michelle Monkhouse, a beautiful, athletic girl I had gone to girl guides with. I hadn’t spoken to Michelle in many years, but for a long time she was a very dear friend of mine.

And now, just as I’m starting to feel better about everything, this happens. I beginning to feel the same exhaustion I felt last year. I need some respite from all of this death.

A few days after my uncle’s death I was speaking on the phone with a dear friend of mine (you learn so much about your relationships with people during periods of great sadness) and I remember being so confused about how life just keeps going after someone dies. I kept expecting pathetic fallacy, an eclipse or for the earth to stop turning for a moment, some kind of physical reflection of the things my heart was feeling. But of course that doesn’t happen. Life keeps happening, and over time things slowly start to get better. People say that death makes you feel more alive, reminds us that we should treat every day like a gift. Those aren’t the feelings I get from death, dealing with death makes me feel languid, introspective, and impossibly fragile.

However there are a few things I have learned from my experiences with death.

The first and probably most important thing that death has taught me was that love was worth it. No matter how short-lived it is, being in love is always worth the risk of heartbreak. Always.

The second is that in end, the bad things don’t really matter. This is especially comforting to me, as my anxiety disorder likes to constantly push the bad things at me.

The third is that in retrospect, everything you choose to do with your life, no matter how mundane will be seen as a triumph, and that people should stop trying to be great, successful, famous, whatever and just do the things that make you happy

And finally, everyone you touch in your lifetime will remember you. So if you want to really be remembered, you should just love the world.

I don’t know when I’ll feel better. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ok, I’m not sure if anyone is ok after they lose people that they love, but as I listen to the words of a song it’s taken me a year to build up the courage to listen to, I know that things will eventually get easier.

I didn’t know Peggy Heller very well; I can’t remember having an extended conversation with her and I don’t know if she even knew my name for longer than the fifteen minutes she gave my oral exam in December of first year. But I do remember that she loved Don Giovanni, she had a beautiful smile, a calm, soothing voice, was one of the smartest women I ever had the pleasure of meeting and that she always smiled at me when we passed in the hallways. I know how much she was loved and respected by the King’s community, and I know that she touched the lives of so many people. King’s really won’t be the same without her, and we will all miss her. Dearly.

I close my eyes and hope they do not fade

These remnants of a voice and a smile

Images of landscape, cloaked in forest green

Like your life unfolding mile by mile

A fierce embrace, a word of thanks

A cheerful whistle, and hours in a van

Somehow these pieces must bring back the man you were

Though the ocean claims your ashes on the sand

(Say Uncle, by Vienna Teng)