Into the Light

September 22, 2024

I want to tell you that grief can just fall in your lap—seemingly out of nowhere.

Driving just a few short blocks to a Bahá’í meeting on a sunny morning, I was suddenly overwhelmed with tears, by your resilience, and by how much you love to make people laugh.

No matter how dire the circumstances, you are usually trying to make the best of things—trying to stay out of the darkness and in the light.

Your frontal-lobe behaviors were challenging, frustrating, and maddeningly relentless. I am not denying the angry outbursts, the defiance, or the passive-aggressive behavior.

And still—I appreciate that you did not surrender to the darkness. You never adopted a poor me or victim mentality.

There were heart-wrenching moments and one of them happened at the North Carolina Arboretum, during an Arbor Evening performance.

It was a perfect Appalachian mountain summer night—golden hour light, ideal temperature. The performer was playing classical-style guitar, Latin and pop songs—exactly the music you loved to play.

By then, you had lost the use of your right hand after Gamma Knife surgery for yet another brain-tumor recurrence—number three, or maybe number four. For months, we had been doing physical therapy and microcurrent therapy, futilely trying to rehabilitate your hand.

Side by side on a rustic bench, tucked into an alcove of lush flowers, shrubs, and trees, you turned to me and said what I was thinking but would never speak:

“I guess I won’t ever be able to play guitar again.”

Stabbed in the heart, blood gushing out of me, I sat quietly trying to tune in to the musician and re-orient myself.

Speechless I flooded with emotion—anger, sadness, resistance to the reality we lived in. I hated the contrast between the beauty of this setting and the ugliness of brain-tumor life. I wanted to cry and scream and kick something, but instead, jaw clinched, I focused on breathing, on staying centered.

After several silent minutes, you lifted your right arm. Your hand hung limp, drooping at the end of your arm. You looked at it. Then you dramatically swiveled to look at me—your joking face on…so familiar, theatrical and comical, impossible to fully describe.

You started gyrating your right arm, making your hand jiggle and flop wildly. You grinned and said,

“At least it can still dance.”

And just like that, you pulled us both back into the light.

Life is growth in the art of loss

― John O’Donohue