This week, a high school friend died of cancer. She was a year younger than me. Two weeks ago, a high school friend died of cancer. He was a year older than me. A few months ago, an acquaintance I’d always admired died of a heart attack. She was also roughly my age.
It is too early for my contemporaries to be dying. I’m not ready. And yet, it’s happening.
Meanwhile, the zipper on my kid’s jacket went kaput, necessitating an emergency Old Navy run (it will still be winter for a few more weeks). This being St. Louis, I rounded a corner to see the mother of the friend who just died. She was trailing her newly orphaned 11-year-old granddaughter, shopping for a funeral outfit. We hugged, I wept, then regrouped and headed for the registers — and around the corner came the sister of the woman who just died. We hugged, and talked a bit, and my eyes just would not stop leaking. She made conversation with my four-year-old and I was barely squeaking out words. It was somewhat ridiculous, but this is how I am when faced with an unexpected grief vortex at Old Navy.
Anyway. That’s the death part. On, now, to swimming.
I have not been swimming as much as I’d like to because of various boring reasons like not enough sleep and giant headaches and fighting off a cold every other week Thank You Preschool! But this week, tired and draggy, I made myself go. Twice. Woot!
On Thursday, heavy with thoughts of death and orphans, I arrived a bit early and ended up chatting with an octogenarian who swims every day. He told me old-timey stories about growing up in a now-derelict part of North St. Louis. Other regular swimmers, all men, showed up and we talked about this and that. I laughed inwardly. Me and the retirees, that’s who swims laps at 10 a.m. on a Thursday.
I got in the water and immediately felt soothed. I felt the power of my body, the pleasure of water running over my skin, the humility of my physical limits. I felt the joy of blowing bubbles and pushing off a wall with all my strength. I thought about the qualities of water — carving canyons, always moving downhill, comforting as a warm bath and rock-hard when smacked with an open palm. Water can be hard to control and unpredictable, and without it, there can be no life. Kind of like death, in a way. But a lot prettier.
On Friday, I went to the memorial service for the most recently deceased friend, who had been ill for a long time. The rabbi was reassuring and warm, the readings were moving, the sense of community was palpable. I learned new things about the woman, and sat there wishing I’d known her better. The rabbi said something about tears opening the gates of heaven, which made me feel better about weeping in Old Navy. And then she related a conversation she’d had with the deceased, about death and water.
Everyone is on a journey toward death, she said, and you can think of each journey as a wave heading for the shore. But each wave is different. There are smooth waves and rough waves. But still, each wave is heading for the shore. Each wave will make it to the sand and be absorbed by it.
And then she said the smartest thing about grieving I’ve ever heard: It doesn’t get better. It gets different.
Maybe I’ll think on that the next time I go swimming.
Mama-Come-Lately 