memorials & individuality

In some of my writing, especially recently, I've remarked that it feels as if I have gone to too many funerals for peers and have read far too many obituaries about old classmates. Terribly, this has not stopped, and I have sadly had to pay my respects to a former employee of mine who was only a few years my junior.  

When she had left her role, it was for vague medical reasons, and we all wished her well. Her parents commented on anxiety and other mental health issues, but even in my ignorance, it felt like something even heavier was going on. That was proven to be the case when I received an email from her mother earlier this month. My dear employee and friend had a rare disease that affected the brain and blood vessels and it took her life. I was shocked.

When she had first gone on medical leave, I could relate and was very sympathetic to the given reasons concerning mental health. We were nothing but patient and I extended every ounce of support to her parents, whom I had never met. We exchanged numerous emails and I only briefly then met her mother once, dropping off a bag of belongings that were at my employee's desk when she had left. It was odd to communicate with these people so frequently, but never put faces to the name, not really. 

When I received the terrible news, her mother linked the public obituary. I told myself that I would go to the funeral, even though they have become more and more difficult for me as time goes by. You'd think you would gain some sort of "resistance" with experience, but that's not true for me, at least. I was choking back tears the moment I got out of my car. 

Listening to her relatives speak about her introverted adventures and hobbies was hard, but it truly was a celebration of life. When her mother spoke, I was stunned to hear her reference our office’s support. "Her very kind coworkers." I finally broke down when she spoke about my friend's love for her pets.

I didn't know anyone there and there was an ounce of awkwardness, sobbing in a room to myself, but it was never really uncomfortable. That's what it means to mourn. 

Her mother continued talking about anxiety issues and how her introversion evolved into adulthood. My friend had strong feelings about interacting with and appreciating everyone's individuality. Although she was a "mama's girl" in her youth, there was typical friction as she grew up, and the ways she and her mother displayed love shifted and adapted over the years. Her mother told a funny story of a Han Solo-esque exchange when she had said, "I love you," to her daughter. "I know," she had replied with a giggle. 

She was incredibly creative and thoughtful, but experienced that existence mostly quietly. She was okay with observing and celebrating people's unique qualities in their own ways and one-on-one, as conveyed by a long time neighbor and family friend who told stories about my friend calling her on the phone and talking about their gardens and green thumbs. I wholly allowed myself to listen to these stories and the words that her family reiterated through their experiences. I had never had those conversations personally, but it was a profound realization and I believed every thought conveyed, because I could now see that in our interactions. 

I made sure to individually speak to her mother and father when there was a break in the service. Her mother clutched my hands and thanked us for the support through her difficult medical leave and for me attending that day. Her father was shocked when I told him my name and grasped me in a hug. We both shook with a sob and I briefly spoke to him with the usual words of support. It was the least that I could do. When I was leaving, he surprisingly followed me to the door and reiterated his family's thanks. I had no idea we had left that strong of an impact and was wholly, emotionally drained. 

As I left the memorial service, I kept thinking of my late friend's words, conveyed through her family. I am a patient person, but I need to instill that patience in my communication with everyone that I interact with and extend that grace and introspection that my friend had lived by. I think that that's how her family would want us to serve justice to her memory, a light so unfairly and prematurely dimmed. But ultimately her memory is a light that will never entirely fade. 

Be patient with yourself and with others. Know that we all have our own gifts to share with the world, and take your time in learning how you best and most comfortably allow yourself to do so. I'll miss you, Stephanie. 

In her memory, support life-saving, organ donation programs and pet adoption & advocacy organizations. Maybe plant something green in her memory. I will do all of these things. Oh, and take up origami! We're still finding pieces of her art in our office, and that's some beautiful clutter we are not eager to clean up.