A Death in the Neighborhood

Sharing Saturday

 

My street is washed over by sadness today. We're unsure as to how to act, what to do. E. and A's dad died yesterday, suddenly. Most of us hadn't even known he was sick.

 

He was a robust man, tall and strong, and you would often see him running with his son up and down our hilly neighborhood.

    Or you would see him with his daughter, she on a scooter or a bike, walking their dog and picking up fruit from the farmer's market. Sometimes he would accompany her to the morning bus stop. He wasn't as chatty as the rest of us, but he always had a warm smile and abundant love for his little girl when he kissed her goodbye.

    He was the coach of his son's soccer team. The team played today, in his honor and memory, because that's what he would have wanted them to do. Another set of people who relied on him for wisdom and support who are now bereft without him. I overheard the news about the team's game in a local store – the news was traveling fast.

    He was a doctor. He traveled around the world to help others less fortunate., focusing on AIDS in developing countries. Having grown up in Zambia himself, he was often returning, sometimes for long stretches, making the difficult choice of leaving his family behind while he did important work that no one else could do.

    Apparently his travels exposed him to diseases that most of us will never see. He fought malaria several years ago, and eventually was felled by meningitis. The cruel irony is that the doctors could not heal the doctor.

    Yesterday, when we heard the news at the afternoon bus stop, we stopped. Tears sprang from our eyes. Apparently, I was pulling my scarf close around my neck, as was the mom who brought us the news, and one of our boys looked up and said, "Why is everyone holding their necks?" I think it is because we were afraid our heads might explode otherwise. Just yesterday morning we had learned that he was in the hospital. We were planning who might bring a meal, take the children to soccer. We did not imagine that we would be contemplating helping plan a funeral.

    I am not close to E. and A.'s mom. She is one of many bus stop moms who I've known for years, and with whom I've had many child-centric conversations, sometimes sharing quite intimate information, but without the basis of real friendship. She is funny, smart, and one of those people filled with interesting information and facts that are quite useful. I've been thinking to myself this year, having not seen her often at the bus stop, that I should spend more time chatting with her. And now instead I must offer her my condolences and support, in whatever meager way I can from a third rung circle of connection.

    When the bus stop moms heard the news, we gathered as a pack in front of the house where tragedy was singeing the steps. We were stunned into platitudes. It's so terrible. It’s so sad. Then, as moms will do, we began the call to action. Should we coordinate a dinner schedule? Should we take the dog for a walk? What about the kids? Each of us has our own threshold for what we can take on, both emotionally and physically. I was aware that had this been someone in my second or first rungs, I would be inside, doing laundry, making calls and providing support. Feeling a bit like an outsider rendered me to feeling less useful.

But I also know that it is impossible to impose on someone in the shock of grief. No matter how far you are from their center, a gesture, a word, a hug, something to help them know that you are thinking of them will be appreciated, even if not acknowledged. I still remember the people who have reached out to me in times of great loss, many of whom were from my third rung, if not even further removed. It's what you do.

    So in the midst of this great sadness, I am going to push through my own sadness and discomfort and do what I can to help and reach out. It's the least I can do when surrounded by the blessings of my own life. The loss of this great husband, father, doctor, man, will leave a hole in all our hearts for a long time. We will watch his children grow and remember. And we will continue to traverse the distance from bus stop to neighbor to friend when the times require.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comments

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This is so terribly sad. I'm so sorry. The family is lucky to have your support. Bringing meals, walking the dogs, talking to the kids, everything helps at a time like this (and months later when the real grief sets in)

[Stacy]

Reading this, I feel a hole in my heart, too. I know whatever you (and the other bus stop moms) do to provide support may seem paltry in light of this terrible loss, but your instinct to be kind and helpful is clearly the right one. And, perhaps, one day, your thoughtful reflections will bring your neighbor's family some healing.