It’s been an interesting few months here and I’ve been recovering from the unexpected loss of a friend. My footing’s been unsure and I needed weeks to reflect on the situation. I’ve decided to share with you my thoughts from September.
The piece is titled “All My Puny Sorrows” inspired by Miriam Toews’s novel from 2014. And the movie, from 2021 directed by Michael McGowan which I watched on the plane back from Halifax as I was digesting the news is also great. And I nearly always cry on airplanes. This time for sure. And the novel’s title was inspired by a poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
I too a Sister had, an only Sister——
She lov’d me dearly, and I doted on her!
To her I pour’d forth all my puny sorrows,
So we meander on in life, loving and losing and enduring the joy and grief that comes with both.
All My Puny Sorrows
The golden October morning light reflects off the water of the estuary here in Comox. Overhead, chevrons of honking Canada geese prepare for their winter migration. A few weeks ago, in less than half a day, I learned about the natural and expected death of Queen Elizabeth II, the safe and expected birth of a granddaughter and the completely unexpected suicide of a friend. It was a lot.
I’d like to talk about my friend and friendship. Those of you who knew her, know her true name but for this reflection, I’ll call her Emily. She was a proud Yorkshire Lass.
The suicide of a friend, an acquaintance or even an unknown person is upsetting. The disturbance of the natural order of things from birth to death alarms us. We feel an uneasiness, even a horror.
Some manage their distress with indignant curiosity and speculation. There is an imperative to know Why and How. There is hope that by knowing more details, by knowing the facts there will be more understanding. There is hope that more understanding might ease the confusion and pain for the survivors of such a loss, the loss of a loved one. The How may become more evident. But the reality is that only Emily knew her Why and the rest of us can only guess.
But who was this extraordinary person? Emily had an energetic glow that she cast on all who associated with her. It was typical for anyone who met her to develop a crush on her and to want to be with her. She was capable, funny, tolerant, kind, thoughtful and generous. Her enthusiasm and playfulness made people happy. And when she laughed, her halo of strawberry blond hair shook about her head.
I remember her beaming face when I eventually pedalled into the parking lot at the top of Mount Washington where she had been waiting for at least an hour. And I remember basking in her belief of my ability to complete the ride (and many others). I remember Emily in the backcountry bounding ahead through the powder like a winter rabbit infinitely fitter than the rest of us older folk. I remember her sharing the remaining mangled power bar in the bug-spit motel on Cortez Island after a long ride, knowing we’d be hungry for the rest of the night. I remember her love of strongly brewed Yorkshire Tea. Other relics of our adventures together–the empty wet suit hanging in the garage, the crumpled tennis skirt in the dresser drawer and her blue pottery mug rest on Denman Island.
But the reality is for the most recent years, I’d seen very little of her. I’d moved away from Vancouver. We still texted occasionally, especially on her birthday which she shared with my partner. I’d heard she was happy with her new job and enjoying the Vancouver lifestyle. I believed that she’d call if she needed me and that she knew she was always welcome here on the island.
Most of my recent visits to Vancouver have been death related–celebrations of life or end-of-life care. That’s normal in your sixties. When I did see Emily on these visits, it was usually by chance in the locker room at the tennis club. I’d be getting out of the pool, or the ocean and she’d be on her way in. We’d hug and laugh and promise to get together soon. She’d found new friends who were better companions–proper athletes, younger, fitter and like her excellent at tennis, biking, skiing, swimming–just about any sport she touched. I was proud of her and certain that she was happy.
The last time I saw her was about eight months ago in that same locker room at the tennis club we both loved. She was with a friend I did not know and was crying. It seemed so intensely private, something that I was not meant to see. But I did. She saw me and we talked. We tried to make a time to meet to talk further but she had to go and I had to go. We slipped past each other. My heart is broken, sorrow, sorrow.
The pillars of friendship are kindness, generosity, and respect. And hindsight requires me to ask what did I give back to Emily? Did I take more than I gave? Was I kind enough, generous enough and respectful enough?
And what if I’d asked more questions? What if I’d insisted that we talk more? What if I’d called? What if I’d been a better friend, kinder, more generous, and more respectful? What if I’d properly understood the enormity of what I’d witnessed?
We all fumble about, tiptoeing along the tightrope of wellness– a combination of the physical, mental and spiritual. It is the combination of luck, fate, and determination that keeps each of us from falling off the tightrope. I’ll never know what was truly going on for Emily, I can only feel a deep sorrow that there was no intervention acceptable to her other than suicide. I wander through the brume of my own pain and my failure as a friend. I’m sorry that I wasn’t paying enough attention. There may be answers to some of the questions but there will never be answers to the most painful ones. What more could I have done to shine some hope into the fog of her despair?
I can’t indulge in the self-deception of closure. There is no closure to suicide. The well of grief is eternal. It waits patiently until something forgotten reminds you of your loved one and then it flows. And my heart is broken my friend, for you and for all your loved ones.
So especially on these darker, shorter days please take care of yourselves and those around you. We all need more love.