Evening of Remembrance

On November 12th, Good Shepherd Hospice held its annual “Evening of Remembrance” for all the hospice patients who had died in the past twelve months, from September 2014 through August 2015.

Jim planned to drive straight from the ferry on Cape Cod, having spent the day on business in Nantucket, so I invited my friend Amy to drive with me to the service in Newton, about a half hour from our house.

We meet in a small auditorium set up with chairs; two long tables flanked a small podium in front. Thirteen white pillar candles and thirteen heart-sized smooth grey stones rested on the tablecloths. A staff member walked to the first candle and lit it as Jaye, the grief counselor, held the first stone in her hands. As Jaye gently turned the stone in her hands, a social worker read the death dates and names of all the hospice patients who had died in September, 2014. There were about thirty names. This ritual was repeated for October, then November, and each month in turn: well over 360 names. It was overwhelming. All those sorrows, and this at just one hospice memorial.
The thirteenth candle was for anyone else we wanted to remember. At my suggestion Amy had submitted the name of her late husband, Kerry. It hadn’t occurred to me to put in my parents’ names; I was so focused on David that evening, but I honored them in my heart as the last candle burned.

I thought October would be hardest and then life would start returning to normal. But November hit me hard and December is starting slow, yet another day I struggle to get out of bed, look helplessly as my email inbox count rises above 300.

Last night a friend of mine called: her son-in-law had just been killed in a freak work-related accident. Suddenly I was on the other side of shock and grief, struggling unsuccessfully to find words to express the support I wanted to give. It’s a strange experience, grief. How do we give comfort, keep the sorrow from separating us from each other? I’m reminded of the writer, Anne Lamott, and her blog post after Robin Williams died:

Gravity yanks us down, even a man as stunning in every way as Robin. We need a lot of help getting back up. And even with our battered banged up tool boxes and aching backs, we can help others get up, even when for them to do so seems impossible or at least beyond imagining. Or if it can't be done, we can sit with them on the ground, in the abyss, in solidarity.

Dear readers, I want you to know that you do support me in my grief. I hope I can pass it on.