Being There

We just got the news that a very dear friend of ours in L.A. passed away this morning.

This is where being far from town is so difficult. In reality, things would have been no different had we been there. Our friend was hospiced and sequestered; we would not have been able to be with them anyway.

We sent a love letter as soon as we got the news they were on their deathbed, and we heard back that they were able to hear and react to the letter. It was all we could do before the end came.

It feels like an extra layer of wrongness when someone emotionally close dies and you aren’t physically close enough to see, touch, or cry at the point of incidence. It feels wrong, even though, in this case, it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference.

As we live, we make changes–we marry or divorce, we change careers, we have kids, we move away from places that are part of our life story. With each change, we have to re-calibrate our past associations and states of being, including our relationships to family and friends.

It’s rare that life changes bring us closer to our previous state of being. Like the cosmos, as we expand our lives we become more distant from one another, literally and figuratively.

When changes come that we can’t control–age, disability, sickness, death–distance feels like both a buffer zone and a tragedy. We stay as close as we can of course, but in the end we are separated forever and there’s little we can say or do about it.

Don’t get me wrong: most of the time, if you can be close by when someone dies, it’s a good thing. Much of the time you can’t, though. I wish that didn’t feel like neglect, like something prickly and shameful. Distance is part of living, and dying. But it hurts.

I can only think of one response to this painful conundrum: to get in the habit of letting all people you know, whether close or far, that you love and appreciate them, and to do this constantly, effusively, obsessively. That way, there’s nothing left unsaid when separation comes, whether it’s due to geographical distance or an unexpected kicking of the bucket. Let the last note you ring in anyone’s ear confirm that they are wonderful and appreciated by you, every time you communicate.

That way, they are in your heart and mind, and you in theirs, when hard changes come. That’s maybe the only closeness that counts.

Goodbye, friend. It was an honor to know you. You are sorely missed. Much love, and thanks.