I remember reading a book called Passages when I was I college. It was required reading for a psych class I was taking. The book, which was on the New York Times’ bestseller list just short of forever, detailed the predictable crises that people will experience in their adult lives. Of course as a 20 year-old undergraduate, certain of my own uniqueness, I was very dismissive of the entire concept that my life might turn out to be (gasp!) predictable. This, I now know, is why no one pays any attention to 20 year old undergraduates.
Thirty-five years later I regard the book as prophetic. As predicted, I have watched as my friends have traveled together through a series of predictable life events: New jobs, starter marriages, new homes, kids, divorces, second marriages, career angst, financial uncertainty and on and on. And now my friends, one by one, are dealing with the loss of their elderly parents.
This was the main topic for discussion when I had lunch with Elizabeth last week at Panera. We met in that Psych class at FAU those many years ago and have been dear friends ever since; this was the first time I saw her since her father’s recent death. I saw her at his memorial but she was so freaked out and so heavily sedated I doubt that she even remembers I was there.
Now as we caught up, inevitably we compared notes: since my Mom passed away less than a year ago our 35-year bond felt even deeper. “I knew this day was coming,” said Elizabeth, “So how could I be shocked when it finally came?” I nodded and let her talk.
“What really annoyed me,” she eventually said , “was the stupid things people said trying to ‘comfort’ me.”
I nodded in agreement; this was a major pet peeve of mine after Mom died. “People kept telling me, ‘It was her time,’” I said. “Like she had an expiration date.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I loved when they told me ‘God called him home. He’s in a better place.’” I smiled, remembering that her dad, an economics professor, was an outspoken atheist. “He was pretty happy in Boca Raton,” she said.
“No, no,” I said vehemently. “I loved the ones who said, ‘She was ready.’’ I sighed deeply, remembering. “You can say what you want,” I said, “but Ma was not ready to check out. She would have happily lived forever.”
Elizabeth almost levitated from her seat. “How about the fools who told me, ‘He was 93,’ as though losing a 93 year-old parent is easier than losing a 70 year-old parent?’” She sipped her iced tea. “It would still be hard even if he were 103.”
“The absolute worst were the ones who wanted all the gory details,” I said: “’Did she suffer?’ ‘Was it an easy death?’ ‘Were you with her?’ Can you imagine?”
“Here’s one,” said Elizabeth. “At the funeral a coworker of mine told me, ‘I know just how you feel. My 16 year old cat just died.’” And now she actually laughed out loud, a hard, humorless laugh, shaking her head helplessly. “Why can’t people just shut the fuck up?” asked Elizabeth. “Saying nothing is better than saying something stupid.”
“I guess they don’t know what to say,” I said.
“They’re fucking idiots,” said Elizabeth bitterly. “Why not just say “I’m so sorry for your loss’?” And I nodded.
We moved on to other topics and after lunch I walked her back to her car. “ I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said simply, and now her eyes were moist.
“I know, Sweetie,” I said as I gave her a long hug. “I am so sorry for your loss.”