Seasons
A friend of mine died this week.
It’s part of an unspoken agreement we all make. You have permission to get older…but need to lose people you love in order to do it.
Julia was tough. Dishing out top-level sarcasm like Steph Curry passing a basketball. Highly skilled. Hilarious. But, like most tough people, she was incredibly sensitive. I imagine you know what that’s like. I think we all do. Toughness becomes a type of armor, doesn’t it? We strap it on and protect ourselves. So often…and for so many years…that it starts happening automatically. Until we’re left with a new challenge. Remembering how to take our armor off.
I don’t know all the specifics of Julia’s childhood. She never elaborated. But I do know it was a deep wound. When she most needed kindness, I get the impression that it was in very short supply.
By the time I met her as an adult, she always seemed to be accompanied by a dog. Fostering more of them with each passing year. And cats too. She eventually moved to Georgia, in big part, to provide them with a spacious yard. I watched rescue dog after rescue dog come into her life. Terrified. Sometimes broken. But, without fail, they always grew to be well-adjusted after spending a little time in her home. After receiving a much-needed dose of kindness.
We look at people with a bunch of pets and instinctively think of them as weird. Man, we can be quick to judge, can’t we? I think Julia got something from animals that she never could from humans. I think she knew what it was like to feel terrified and broken. Because I think that’s how it goes for people sometimes. We all get a different roll of the dice. But those animals brought love into her life. They would never hurt her and she would never hurt them. That’s how it goes sometimes too. We can receive a gift and be a gift all at once.
Julia got sick soon after moving to Georgia. Courtesy of a rare form of cancer that landed in her lap one random day. Quickly, the aggressive chemo started. They gave it their best shot. But, in spite of that effort, the treatment failed. Her doctor shared the news. A few months to live – maybe six. And she didn’t particularly feel like talking about that either. Just kept working, making sarcastic jokes, and continuing on with our “important” debates about world topics. Like why Netflix makes so many bad movies. She, of course, spent much of her remaining energy on finding loving homes for her pets. Clearly, she knew her clock was ticking fast. But she seemed very interested in hearing about my day-to-day problems. I think her plate was too heavy. The daily nonsense on mine was easier to digest. And it blew my mind to realize something…
My most serious problems can literally function as a form of light distraction for someone else.
Of course, she never put it that way. And she didn’t feel that way about it. She just craved any sense of normalcy. Because I think she still wanted to be of service. Her body gave out, not her heart. I think she still needed a place to put her kindness.
At the very end, she knew it was over. No longer able to eat. Very tired and ready to go to sleep. In our last conversation, I told her that she was loved in this life. That I knew it wasn’t always easy for her to feel it. But she really did make life better and happier for people. I told her how much her friendship meant to me. And that I would always treasure those memories.
We humans do so many mental dances. But one of them really stands out…
We lose people over and over again. Then, after some time goes by, we jump right back into our default state. A kind of day-to-day forgetting that it will happen to us too. Sure, our brains understand the idea. But we behave as if this life will last forever. And we can’t seem to shake that mental routine. Not until it’s too late.
I wonder what Julia would do with one more day.
I wonder what any of our lost loved ones might say to us in one last conversation.
And, one day, people will be left wondering that about us too.
Our clocks are ticking fast.
Can we ever figure out a way to remember that?
