We lost our oldest friend.
She was not the friend whom I had known the longest, but my oldest by far.
B. turned 100 a few months ago. I had known her for over 20 years as we belonged to the same UU church. When she passed away, it wasn’t that any of us were shocked (did I mention she was 100?!) but the feeling of loss was palpable and painful nonetheless.
It is easy to understand grief around a loss that comes early or tragically or violently. Why then is our grief not ameliorated by extreme old age or serious and debilitating illness?
Part of the reason is that no matter how much we may anticipate it, losing someone to death is never easy. We can voice the usual platitudes about someone being in a better place, or coming to the end of their suffering, but those are only reasons why we feel we shouldn’t be sad, rather than reasons why we are not.
When someone dies at an advanced age, it is common that we say goodbye to them a little bit at a time. When my mother first started showing signs of dementia, we said farewell to the discussions about current affairs that we loved. When she had a stroke, we were forced to say goodbye to the reader who devoured books and to the grandmother who remembered your interests well enough to ask about them specifically. When her health and mobility became severely limited, we were forced to part with the lunch partner who loved to eat at restaurants and have a good glass of red wine.
And so we said goodbye to our friend B. many times and in many ways. We said goodbye to her as a social justice warrior when she could no longer drive herself places. (She and her best friend had been asked to stop delivering “Meals on Wheels” when they were so much older than any of the people they were visiting that it seemed absurd!) We said goodbye to her as a church leader as she was able to attend less and less frequently.
Whenever she came though, you could tell that she was energized by the community. As in most faith communities, people are asked to stand only “as they are able” and B. had felt comfortable staying seated for quite some time. Less than a year before her passing, I looked over during one of the more rousing and meaningful hymns, and saw B. up on her feet singing with all her soul. The road to the end of life has many hills and valleys we found.
After her 100th birthday, B. started to decline. Still living in her own home, she was the gracious recipient of palliative and hospice care. Her friends from church were fortunate that her family and her caregivers were so sensitive to our need to continue to have B. as an integral part of our congregation. It would have been within their rights to refuse access to this proud and private woman during the days of her decline. But we were welcomed to be part of the circle of people who were taking their gradual leave of her presence.
When it looked like the end was coming, a small group of us visited B. and sang for her; mostly “churchy” inspirational songs and also some old standards from back in the day. It was peaceful and calming for her and for us. When we had finished, she piped in with the song that she had always sung lovingly to her children and grandchildren; “Button up your overcoat, when the wind is free. Take good care of yourself, you belong to me.” We all gave and received the gift of song and connection. We ministered and were ministered to. We said goodbye.
She passed away about a week later. And it still hurt. Even though we were expecting it. Even though we knew she was going to die. Even though she was 100. Because she was our oldest friend.
She was not the friend whom I had known the longest, but my oldest by far.
B. turned 100 a few months ago. I had known her for over 20 years as we belonged to the same UU church. When she passed away, it wasn’t that any of us were shocked (did I mention she was 100?!) but the feeling of loss was palpable and painful nonetheless.
It is easy to understand grief around a loss that comes early or tragically or violently. Why then is our grief not ameliorated by extreme old age or serious and debilitating illness?
Part of the reason is that no matter how much we may anticipate it, losing someone to death is never easy. We can voice the usual platitudes about someone being in a better place, or coming to the end of their suffering, but those are only reasons why we feel we shouldn’t be sad, rather than reasons why we are not.
When someone dies at an advanced age, it is common that we say goodbye to them a little bit at a time. When my mother first started showing signs of dementia, we said farewell to the discussions about current affairs that we loved. When she had a stroke, we were forced to say goodbye to the reader who devoured books and to the grandmother who remembered your interests well enough to ask about them specifically. When her health and mobility became severely limited, we were forced to part with the lunch partner who loved to eat at restaurants and have a good glass of red wine.
And so we said goodbye to our friend B. many times and in many ways. We said goodbye to her as a social justice warrior when she could no longer drive herself places. (She and her best friend had been asked to stop delivering “Meals on Wheels” when they were so much older than any of the people they were visiting that it seemed absurd!) We said goodbye to her as a church leader as she was able to attend less and less frequently.
Whenever she came though, you could tell that she was energized by the community. As in most faith communities, people are asked to stand only “as they are able” and B. had felt comfortable staying seated for quite some time. Less than a year before her passing, I looked over during one of the more rousing and meaningful hymns, and saw B. up on her feet singing with all her soul. The road to the end of life has many hills and valleys we found.
After her 100th birthday, B. started to decline. Still living in her own home, she was the gracious recipient of palliative and hospice care. Her friends from church were fortunate that her family and her caregivers were so sensitive to our need to continue to have B. as an integral part of our congregation. It would have been within their rights to refuse access to this proud and private woman during the days of her decline. But we were welcomed to be part of the circle of people who were taking their gradual leave of her presence.
When it looked like the end was coming, a small group of us visited B. and sang for her; mostly “churchy” inspirational songs and also some old standards from back in the day. It was peaceful and calming for her and for us. When we had finished, she piped in with the song that she had always sung lovingly to her children and grandchildren; “Button up your overcoat, when the wind is free. Take good care of yourself, you belong to me.” We all gave and received the gift of song and connection. We ministered and were ministered to. We said goodbye.
She passed away about a week later. And it still hurt. Even though we were expecting it. Even though we knew she was going to die. Even though she was 100. Because she was our oldest friend.
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