Dealing with Grief

Editor’s Corner

In the year of forty-four—mid-life (am I really mid-life?) and it is bringing up emotions. My whole childhood, and early adult life, I was convinced that I would be the one going early… and I could avoid dealing with all the grief. Here I am, mid-forties. Still here. Now dealing with griefs that didn’t occur to me. Burying friend’s children, burying my favorite cousin’s husband, attending funerals for my daughter’s friends’ grandparents—trigger warning, this is a stream of consciousness brought on by sudden, unexpected grief.

I have a friend I physically see once a year. We’ve been friends since preschool. I love her, our kids see each other for an hour or two a year, and they look forward to it! She has been my friend for forty years and she is genuine—she talks and everything that comes out is straight up truth with no filter. This past visit, she said something I never knew, and it took me aback. She told me when we were little, her mom told her that due to my medical condition I may only live until twelve, maybe sixteen. So, in going into being my friend—I likely could be a limited friend coming with a potential pile of grief. We met when we were three years old. And she was given the option to be my friend, or I might die, so she didn’t have to be my friend if she didn’t want to. I have mixed feelings about this, and, as a parent can see both sides. You want to protect your kids from the pain of grief—especially as children. But is it worth the loss of the memories of friendship? I put myself in the other’s shoes, would I tell my first grader that their friend was on a limited time span? Honestly, I don’t know that I would. Anyone’s time could be, well, any time. I’m still here, she’s definitely here. Yet so many others sure are not.

I got a call recently, the type of call that no one wants to get, that a close friend from my youth, a closer-than-close friend’s sibling, lost his life to an overdose. I knew this friend had problems, he had for years. But when we spoke on the phone with him last summer, he was clean, pulling it together, and sounding so clear. He was back on track, and our minds were at ease. It’s what we all thought.

The last time I saw him, seventeen years ago, we were walking down the streets of Northampton going in opposite directions. I was on the way to meet up with my boyfriend (now husband). He stopped in front of me, I looked up and realized who it was (I always walk looking down—I don’t want to step in anything), and it was the happiest I had ever seen anyone to randomly find me. Hugs on the sidewalk, I am so happy to see you…. I’m sure I’ll see you soon. I could not know then that his funeral would be less than a mile from that location and I wouldn’t see him again.

We were so close at Fryeburg New Church Assembly when we were awkward twelve, thirteen, fourteen-year-old weirdos, the real tough years. Kids were mean to him for being different. We were friends. I didn’t care. He didn’t come back to camp after fifteen. But that is one of the true specialties of our camps and spiritual gatherings. It doesn’t matter if we saw each other yesterday or twenty years ago. Once you are in my spiritual family, you are part of it, for life and hereafter.

But here’s what I struggle with. I’m the one with the incurable “childhood” medical condition. I’m the one who was supposed to go first. Yet here we are—burying babies from SIDS, children from cancer, teens from suicide, adults from ALS, and now my friends, in my generation, from overdose. It takes a bit of a toll on your mind. It really makes you think. I am so thankful for the scientific advances that have been made so that I can live a more normal life than could have even been expected for me. I am thankful for us, our church, to know that there is more, and life on earth isn’t the end. But it is really tough sometimes. Derek, you are missed, we love you—I will someday see you in the canoe on the river in heaven.

—Beki Greenwood

Messenger@swedenborg.org

Read the full issue of the May 2024 Messenger