I see it.
It is of Bernice and some Disney-like character. The oversized bird’s bright yellow beak and Bernice’s nose are touching. Her face is glowing with laughter and joy.
This photo is the essence of Bernice’s spirit—upbeat and playful. It is a wonderful reminder to me that, although Bernice’s body may be going through turmoil right now, her bright spirit will remain forever.
Wednesday, July 4
Thoughts of Bernice are all-consuming. I wake up at night thinking of her. Every time the phone rings, my fear is that there is some bad news.
Wednesday, July 11
I’m out of town, attending a week-long conference in San Diego, California. The phone in my hotel room rings at two thirty in the morning. Without even answering it, I know exactly what has happened. I check out of the hotel and I’m on a plane to New York to arrange for the funeral and Bernice’s burial.
Friday, July 13
Bernice’s coffin is lowered into the ground. It is Friday the 13th.
Saturday, July 14
The day after the funeral, my daughter and I decide we need some quiet time together. We stay around Bernice’s apartment going through some of her possessions. In the afternoon, we take advantage of the unusually cool, for New York, summer weather and go to a nearby museum. There we spend time reflecting in a tranquil setting.
But the tranquility doesn’t last long. Unbeknownst to us, it is the museum’s annual fundraiser. When we enter the museum’s courtyard, hundreds of people are starting to gather. The DJ is working his musical magic, the band is getting ready to take over, and the crowd is anticipating the loud and lively late afternoon.
We get caught up in the festive scene, order a beer, and delight in watching the spectacle of the young New York art scene. There we sit, forgetting—at least for a while—that Bernice’s funeral occurred just a little over twenty-four hours before.
We also realize that the solitude we planned for that day was not to be. When the loud music gets a bit much for us, and the crowd starts to become overbearing, we head for one of Bernice’s favorite neighborhood restaurants. Just before our meal arrives, a young man takes a seat next to our table. With his guitar, he plays and sings songs by the Beatles, Paul Simon, and others. He invites us to sing with him. We do. Like the museum experience, the quiet dinner we anticipated did not happen.
But what did happen was spontaneous magic. Throughout the day, it was as if Bernice’s luminous spirit was saying to us, “You’ve cried enough. You’ve mourned enough. Now it’s time to partake in the music of life.”
Sunday, July 15
I think of two things Bernice told me. One she shared several months prior to her death. She said that she lived her life by what her mother taught her—to bring joy to at least one person each day.
The other thing she told me occurred when I was a teenager. It was about her world excursions. She was the first person I knew who traveled by airplane. I used to stand on the observation deck at LaGuardia Airport and wave to her as her plane took off. One day, I asked her if she was afraid that the plane might crash.
She said she wasn’t, but that if it did, she would want it to be on the return flight so that she would not miss a moment of her vacation. That was Bernice—never missing a moment of what life had to offer.
Thursday, Friday, Saturday…July, August, September…and the rest of the days.
I think of Bernice often, and with the music of her joyous spirit to guide me, I get on with life.
Step One
Losing
If you believe yourself unfortunate, because you have loved and lost, perish the thought. One who has loved truly, can never lose entirely.
—Napoleon Hill, American author
Losing a loved one is not easy. I know—I have had many losses in my life. The one that made the most impact on my life was my wife’s death when she was thirty-four. In addition, my mother, my father, my four grandparents, my sister-in-law, several cousins, and both my mother-in-law and father-in-law have died, as well as over forty friends and colleagues who are no longer here because of AIDS or cancer.
I don’t think we ever forget the people we lose. So in some sense, they are never gone. But, still, it hurts not to be able to see them, hear them, or hold them again.
Loss hurts. But it can also help us be stronger, wiser, and, if nothing else, more appreciative of every moment we have on this earth.
In Shock
If you’re going through hell, keep going.
—Winston Churchill, British politician
When a loss occurs, shock sets in. This is natural. At the time, it may feel like you can’t deal with life. That is okay…for now.
You may feel numb and listless.
You may not want to eat or even get out of bed in the morning.
You may feel overwhelmed.
You may feel that your life has stalled or stopped.
You may also feel angry, depressed, and even guilty.
Know that you are not going crazy. All of these are normal responses in the grief process.
Why Me?
I don’t know why babies are born with AIDS, young people get killed in tragic accidents, or the Cubs can’t win a World Series. But I do believe there are blessings in every challenge, and lessons, growth and ultimately prosperity in what they bring us.
—Randy Gage, American prosperity teacher
After experiencing a loss, you may be asking yourself, “Why has this happened to me?”
The answer to the “why me” question is twofold. First, perhaps there is no answer to that question. And second, you are too close to your loss right now to know the answer. While these answers don’t provide much comfort, some solace might be had in knowing that we are all a small part of a much grander universe and that, with time, your loss will take its proper place.
Perhaps, too, the better question (or questions) to ask after a loss might be:
•“How will this help me live more fully knowing that my time is limited too?”
•“How will this help me contribute to the greater good for all people?”
•“How will this make me become a more loving person?”
Rising Above Your Loss
What is extraordinary about us is that we each have the capacity to rise like the phoenix out of our ashes, to create ourselves newly, to begin again. We can transform ourselves and our lives, regardless of what we have endured before now. Maybe the true purpose of suffering is that out of our pain, we will rise, expand, grow, and achieve.
—Judy Tatelbaum, American author/therapist
Go ahead. Wallow in your loss. It is okay. You probably need that right now. But that is now, not forever. Somewhere down the road, your tears will subside.
When we experience a loss, we can focus on the tears and on what we no longer have, or we can appreciate what we still have. We can focus on a life cut short or celebrate a life lived. We can feel sorry for ourselves or see our loss in a larger context.
You can get lost in your loss; you also have the power to rise above it.
During loss, it seems that you can’t possibly go on. Everything in your life may seem like it has come to a standstill. But you can go on—and will go on.