For Erin

My truly sad days number three. Only three days, in as many decades of life, have been heartbreaking and life-altering. My mom’s sister, my godmother Soupie, lost her battle with lung cancer in August 2008. We, as a very large family, squeezed into her hospital room and prayed over her, said a rosary over her, and she, who could barely speak, told us she loved us. Hours later she was gone. At some point during the church service, the choir of which she was a member for 20 years sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” which I’ve never cared for. But when THEY sang it, for their beloved friend and our beloved aunt/sister/wife/mother/grandmother, I understood that she was GONE, in that box to my right, and something in me cracked. I cried from a deep, dark, sad place I had never felt before, and have not felt since. Three months later, when I got married and she wasn’t there, I felt the soreness from a part of me that broke months earlier.

In December 2006, my dear friend’s husband died in Iraq. He left behind my friend Maggie and her three small children. If I remember correctly, the priest doing the mass got too choked up to continue. He was buried at Arlington Cemetery – the 21-gun salute, the bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace,” the folded flag presented to the widow, the caisson drawn by horses carrying his casket through Arlington Cemetery. For all my life, I will remember Maggie and her three children parading behind that caisson with Marine escorts, in Jackie-Kennedy fashion. The funeral was my last day with my friends and coworkers at Downey McGrath before I moved back home to Louisiana. That day was the day I fully understood how cruel the world is and felt the reach of war.

I had thought, through Erin’s illness, that she and I would be able to sit down together once death was approaching, so that she could tell me everything she wanted for Jake and Landen after she was gone. We did not get to have the formal conversation, though I think I spent enough time with her to understand how to carry on for her. Two weeks before she died, early on a Sunday morning, I was summoned to the Johnson house because it looked like she was going. We didn’t know then, but she was having a three-hour seizure, and later that day she was moved to residential hospice, where they had more medical resources to give her comfort in her final days. The Thursday before, she had been at the ballpark in her wheelchaired glory, watching her babies play baseball. Landen played at 6. Jake played at 7:30. It got chilly and she got tired, but she cheered and took pictures until the last runner was called out. I look back on that Thursday now and understand that I was with someone who was unstoppable.

On that Sunday morning, I knelt down by her and promised her that the boys would always know who she was and what she was like, that she would always be alive in our home. She told me she loved me. I told her I loved her and kissed her forehead. Two days before she passed, I promised her the boys would be loved and happy. I think that we were together enough and talked enough up to the end that I knew her wishes and she knew my intentions. I like to think that to the extent a person can be at peace with such an early departure from their children, she had confidence the boys would be okay. I’d always heard that people have visions of relatives and friends who’ve died before them when they’re dying. Erin spent two weeks having visions of her babies as babies.

I know I was not a welcome addition to Erin’s life, but she never let me feel like I shouldn’t be here. She embraced me. I know now that I am but one of many people who delighted in Erin during her life. Father Bob kept saying at her mass “you don’t forget someone like Erin.” When there was nothing to smile about, she smiled. When her health was failing, she asked about yours. She summoned energy from unknown sources to be present for her boys’ moments, big and small. Her memory for events and conversations, sights, smells and sounds was unlimited. That singer/songwriter genius Carole King wrote “Beautiful” almost a decade before Erin was born, but she was an example of the first two lines of that song - you’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face and show the world all the love in your heart. She was good and true. She was love.

My third saddest say was the day Corey and I told her goodbye – Wednesday, April 21, 2010. Pam called us and said they only expected her to make it another few hours. She actually held on until Saturday, April 24. He and I went into her room and sat by her bed. I rubbed her arm while he assured her the boys would be okay and we would never let them forget her. I was crying too hard to talk. I felt this loss for both the mother losing her daughter, and for the child losing his mother. She was light to some very important people, and now there is dark.

So when tomorrow starts without me,
Don't think we're far apart
For every time you think of me,
I'm right here in your heart.