The Strangeness of Loss

Death has come again to remind us of the strangeness of loss. The loss of a young life tends to move everyone. It seems harder to accept that the sand has run out of the hourglass when it belongs to someone who has yet to even experience the bitter sweetness of aging. When we are young, we tend to think that death does not happen to people our age. That it only calls for those with pages and pages of days lived. In my young life, I have been reminded twice that sometimes this inevitable illness comes for those we least expect. The first when I was just seveteen years old. The second not more than a week ago. So, this week I have had to confront the discomfort and strangeness of an untimely goodbye. The thoughts aren't so clear yet but there are words worth sharing. So, here goes my best attempt at walking you through this labyrinth of emotions

Death and the Maiden, 1915, Egon Schiele

I have always felt a weird connection to death. I think I tend to think about it more than one probably should. Sometimes the thought of my own mortality keeps me up at night and I find myself in a fit of anxiety as I try to imagine what comes after we take our last breaths. As inevitable as death may be, I think like many others, I find comfort in the idea that such a fate only comes your way when you have acquired your fair share of wrinkles and walked so many paths that your feet feel they can no longer carry you. So when death comes in and collects someone who has just barely begun to live their life, it seems to sting a little bit more. That gut-wrenching reminder that no matter how many plans we can make, time really isn't promised.

The very first time I experienced the wrath of this dreadful reaper, I was nine years old. At that point in life I could barely grasp the concept of death being real. (My first loss of innocence, as described by a therapist) Seventeen years later and I still remember every detail of that day, all the way down the order of emotions I felt. Not knowing that what I was experiencing was trauma, I developed a dislike for the smell of cocoa butter. Could not stand the scent in the slightest. About a month ago, I found myself longing for the smell. I then managed to get my hands on some cocoa butter scented shower gels and lotions. When sitting with this familiar yet distant smell, I tried to remember why I had hated it for so long. And then it hit me.

When my aunt was battling breast cancer, we would go over to her house to visit and help out where needed. After a soak in the tub, she would always ask that we massage her back with her favourite cocoa butter scented lotion. And so that smell always brought back memories of her. While rubbing in my very own bottle of this lotion without distaste many years later, I was faced a realisation. I was healing. The mending of a heart can happen in so many ways and here was mine. Bottled up in this chocolatey lotion.

Life has a funny way of opening up new wounds right after closing old ones. A few days ago I learned of the passing of an old friend. If I'm honest, I don't really know how to feel yet. I do know that my heart aches. At first, I had somehow convinced myself that my grief was not valid. That other's had more of a "right" to mourn than I did. I felt guilty with each message that came in to ask me how I was doing. This friendship had its complexities and so I felt like others who had reached out more while they had the chance were more deserving of this space to mourn than I was. I made up this false hierachy of grief in my head, and for what? I don't really know. I sat with these feelings while holding them at a distance until I no longer could. I kept being reminded of the bond we shared. That at some point, he and I were as thick as thieves, and that time does not erase the tunnels built by emotional connections. It took constant reaching out from mutual friends to actually allow myself the space to feel and come to terms with the fact that I had lost a friend. My friend. My dear friend.

This is a shared loss. A shared loss for all those who will always look at photos of him and hear the distant memory of his mischievious laughter. A shared loss for all those who were lucky enough to have been the recipient of his jokes. All those who cried with him, shared meals with him, those who ran alongside him on the hockey field. We all ache together.

I have bared witness to death's visits quite a few times now and honestly, I don't think its presence will ever begin to feel familiar. Healing is a constant journey. And here I am, returning to the start up line, getting ready to run this race once again.

RIP Luzane Lorenzo Joumaar 1998-2024.

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.