It has been a hard couple of weeks, with sad and sometimes wretched news from family and friends: anxious loved ones with fragile relationships; friends with health crises and devastating diagnoses; and former schoolmates with family deaths. I never get used to bad news, and the ways it can now be communicated is proliferating. It might be a late-night text message. Or you might read about it on a social media post. Out-of-the-blue personal phone calls during the workday are not usually auspicious.
After settling into my office on Monday morning this week, I opened an email from the night before. A law school buddy shared shattering news: her young adult son had died tragically and suddenly.
It had only been a couple of months since I had met with her and several other friends to celebrate the 35th anniversary of graduating law school. Though our gatherings had been infrequent through the years, we quickly settled into that familiar and transparent conversation that close-knit confidants never lose. Our rapport was sparked by the trying – and occasionally traumatic – experience of law school, which we processed while carpooling to and from our educational confinement. My classmate reported that her son seemed to be in a good place, despite years of emotional and physical health hardships.
The next day, I received a telephone call from a former neighbor, a soul mate, who reported a recent, potentially deadly health diagnosis. I could not bear to hear my most-stoic-of-friend’s voice shake with fear.
And it has only been ten days since a high school classmate, the pillar of our class and its eternal reunion organizer, passed away. Though he and I had often clashed over national politics, we had diplomatically mended the fence some time ago. Days before he died, we exchanged cheery commentary about Civil War history in Kentucky. My last words to him were, “Who knew that we shared this interest in common?” He and I both knew the deeper meaning of that comment: politics aside, we were more alike than we were different.
My reaction to the inundation of bad news has taken spontaneous routes, much like paddling a kayak in rapids. I have tossed and turned in bed at night, worried and fretted, delivered home-made chili, posted heartfelt condolences on social media, and left my cell phone turned on and accessible at all times. I have sent supportive emails and messages and mailed cards and hand-written notes. I have committed myself to being present for the people I love; I want them to know I hear their pain and I am honored that they share it with me.
Life brims with loss. Our identity is formed, at least partially, by the pain we experience and witness. No one is beyond the capricious grasp of fate, which is triggered by genetics, by lifestyle, and by happenstance.
But there is an odd beauty in sorrow and the compassion it promotes. These past weeks remind me of the exquisite fragility of a vibrant life. I pause and consider the choices before me, decisions which seem more urgent than they did before. I have an impatient yearning to grow and explore how I spend my time, and I am sharpening my focus on what used to be hazy possibilities. The world feels ripe with potential, and I sense the pull of an earnest summons.
The anthem chorus of Acicii’s song, The Nights, keeps marching in my mind:
One day you’ll leave this world behind, so live a life you will remember.