On January 7, I attended my seventh funeral in just over two years. I know I am approaching the age where skimming the obits and attending services become routine: expected, if not anticipated. People grow old and die. That’s life. However, only one of the services was age-appropriate. My dear friend’s stepfather, fully engaged in life in his mid-90’s, succumbed to old age. His family planned a beautiful celebration of his full and vibrant life. I can’t say the same for the other six funerals.
This dubious streak kicked off with the death of an alum from the high school where I taught for 15 years. The young man was 25, and speeding. He lost control and hit a pole. I shared this tragic story with my 25-year old son; the two of us planned to attend his service on Sunday. However, in an eerie twist of fate, 18 hours prior to the funeral, my own son was speeding, lost control, and slammed into a concrete pole. My life crashed and burned. When I emerged from the ashes of deep shock, disbelief and grief, it was to attend the funeral of the 30-yr. old son of a woman whose strength and leadership I greatly admire. Like me, she is a veteran teacher, who raised her children with grace, humor and unconditional love. She is also the facilitator of my local chapter of The Compassionate Friends, having lost her younger son a decade ago. In those meetings, she gave me hope that I would, someday, live and laugh again fully. When I learned the tragic news of her oldest son, my heart shattered for her and her family. How is it possible to keep living after losing two children?! What kind of cruel test is this?
I would find out before the years end. My 30-year old daughter-in-law became another victim of the heroin epidemic. The shock and pain and hurt and anger enveloped me. O wretched death! Her October service, billed a celebration of Thanksgiving, struck me to the core. I found it impossible to give thanks for a life cut short at 30. A mother, leaving a motherless child behind.
I’ve heard well-meaning people say “It was her time.” “He lived a full life.” I was even told by a bereaved mom: “My child lived a whole lifetime in his 23 years on earth.” I can’t buy that. Regardless of whether they had found their soulmate, followed their earthly dreams, touched countless lives, even met goals found on a typical bucket list, NO! A quarter-century is not a full life! It’s 25 cents on the dollar. A life cheated. Love ones left clutching their gaping hearts.
As humans, we want to make sense of things. We want to understand. As vilomahs-grieving parents-we want to find answers to our “Why?” and “What if…?” questions eating away at us. A neat, logical little reason. But sometmes there is no sense. No reason. Life is unfair. Why is my big-hearted, good-natured, deep-thinking son gone? No answer makes sense. How can a wonderful, engaged, caring mother lose two of her sons? Isn’t there a limit on how much pain one may endure? How can a dear friend go running on a cold winter day, fully alive, and then collapse by the woodstove? These questions gnaw at me. And remind me that compassion, love, grace, support, kindness are the only answers. Today, tomorrow, forever.