A Life Well Lived

Yesterday morning the call came. It’s time.

My mom jumped from bed and raced to the hospital. My sister was already there. And then, Gary being Gary, he stayed.

Perhaps he still had unfinished business. Perhaps there were people he wanted to see one more time. Whatever the reason, all day long friends and family came in a stream, sharing stories, saying goodbye. He held on through all of it, through every voice and every hand and every story told at the side of his bed.

I called and said one last goodbye. I was sad not to be there in person, sad not to have one last hug. But I knew that Gary knew how much I loved him, because I always told him. And I knew I was loved, because he always told me. There was nothing left unsaid between us, nothing except the one thing none of us can help: I wish you didn’t have to go.

At two in the afternoon the doctor said it would be within two hours. And still he stayed.

More people came. More stories were shared. Photos passed around of a long life and all its adventures: a soapbox derby, a safari in Africa, panning for gold in the Yukon. A young beat cop. A grandfather teaching his granddaughter to read. A cafe in Paris, the two of us together. So many adventures, and all the ordinary days in between, some good, some bad, all of it life. A life well lived. In every photo, a vibrant smile and the echo of a laugh, a joke just told or about to be.

All day we prayed. Friends near and far prayed for a peaceful passing. At midnight I went to bed. At four in the morning, the call came.

My mom and my sister were by his side. His last breath was so quiet they did not even hear it.

Two things can be true.

You can be broken. A heart that was whole just one minute before, cracked open the second you hear the news. And you can be, not happy, not sad, not relieved, but some mixture of all of those feelings that does not have a name. Happy for a life well lived. Happy that you had him for so many years. Happy that he is no longer suffering. And sad, because you are broken. Sad for the things he will never be a part of now, the milestones and the ordinary Tuesdays, except in the way you will carry him forward, telling him in your heart and in your mind, the way we do with everyone we love who goes ahead of us.

We never want our people to go. We never want them to suffer. We wish we could be together forever. Sadly, that is not the way life is.

What I know is this: he was loved, and he knew it. He is, I have to believe, exactly where he always belonged, reunited with everyone who went before him, his parents, his friends, his grandson, his pups. Whole. At peace. Home.

Thank you for the prayers and the kindness. This community has always felt like a room full of friends, and today I am grateful for every one of you.

Before I go, I want to say thank you. Yesterday I wrote from a raw and tender place and you showed up in the most beautiful way. Sharon, who read it first thing in the morning. Bobbie, sitting with birdsong and coffee and tears for a man she never knew. Nanci, who told me that thirty-six years later she still says “I wish I could ask her that,” which is both the hardest and the most comforting thing I have heard. Katherine, who is carrying her own loss this week and still found words for mine. Ellen, who was sitting in a hospital with her husband when she wrote to me, asking for prayers herself, and I am asking all of you to pray for her too. Jeannine, who brought Maya Angelou to the table. Rita, who said Gary was blessed to have our family, which undid me completely.

To all of you who left a comment, and to everyone who read and did not comment but held us in your hearts: thank you. This is why I write. This right here.

“Grief is the price we pay for love.”

— Queen Elizabeth II