Last month, I went to a funeral of a patient, Greg, whom we all adored. As you can imagine, we are unable to attend all the funerals to which we are invited, but this family quickly crept into my heart. That is how Eddie and I found ourselves in the church pews on Friday morning. We did the usual funeral things: egg-mayo sandwiches, bagpiped psalms, beautiful eulogies and a moving service in general, but what resonated with me most was that we only saw Greg’s last chapter. In this chapter, he was weak, sick and frustrated. Everyone else knew and loved him throughout other chapters; the ones in which he was a strong, disciplined athlete, a gentle dad, a naughty pre-schooler, a devoted son. Some people knew him through all the chapters. Some knew him for short stints. The little bit of Greg I saw, was only a small part, right at the end of the story.
We are so quick to judge people, or make up our minds about someone based on one or two interactions. It is dangerous to reduce someone to just the chapter you stumbled into. We all carry so many versions of ourselves, each one shaped by time, circumstances and age. Sometimes it’s not major chapter differences that make others’ experience of us different, but smaller momeents in the day to day. Honestly, the hungry version of me is much less pleasant than the full-tummy iteration. When our Wi-Fi is off, I’m much grumpier than when I have a beautiful 1000MB. If I have a bad hair day, if I didn’t sleep well, if my car battery was flat, if I am wearing uncomfortable shoes, if my cat ignores me, it affects who I am. Even tiny immaterial things mould who I am in any given moment. How much more do trauma, and pain, and loss and grief change us? These make up many paragraphs in our lives, but they are never the only or the full story. It is such a blessing when we can be a part of someone’s whole story, or at least more than just the difficult chapters.
Greg’s story stayed with me, and it reminded me again how precious it is to know more than just one part of someone’s life. A little while ago this was made very real for me by an unexpected call. My phone rang, and it was my friend Michelle. “Shelly” and I have come a long way. We met as first years at Hotel school. I saw her in the parking lot one day, getting into a blue little Renault and driving in the same direction as me. We soon realised that we live close to each other, and decided to start our very own lift club. For the next three years, the two of us drove into Johannesburg every day to attend lectures. We had a connection right from the beginning, shared a naughty sense of humour, and as far as students go, we were much more interested in attending the social side of things than focusing too much on studying. I suspected Michelle would be a friend for life when she suggested we should always sit next to the Muslims during our wine tasting lectures. They received glasses of wine like the rest of us, but were not allowed to drink,so sniffing it had to suffice. Michelle and I saved the day by happily volunteering to down the wine on their behalf. For the next three years, we darted around Joburg in our little cars, jamming to Johny Clegg, cramming for exams and going out… and without knowing it, we started to weave a foundation of a beautiful, uncomplicated friendship.
After graduation, we settled in different provinces and hardly saw each other. Our lives followed parallel paths: marriages, children, the deaths of our dads, working for ourselves, and in the usual messiness of life, we checked in on each other less and less… until the phone call. Shelly was crying and quickly told me that her mom had been ill. She was referred to a palliative care unit called Zazen, and while doing her research about it, happened upon a picture of her old friend… just with more wrinkles and a muffin top (okay she didn’t say that).
And so, after sharing earlier chapters of our lives, we were thrown back together to write the pages of one of the most difficult journeys in one’s life. Having Michelle’s beautiful mom stay with us was such a privilege. Despite the sad circumstances, getting reconnected with my friend was a gift to me. It felt like we picked up a bookmark we left years ago, and the story just continued. I did not realise how much I missed her, and I was grateful beyond words that a woman I deeply respected was able to pass away with us and spared the indignity of being kept alive by machines in a sterile ward. For days we sat in the garden drinking wine, drinking tea, and laughing with Michelle’s sister. Her mom was in the best place, she was safe and loved, and I knew, so was Michelle and her people. It felt so right.
Experiencing Michelle’s mom’s end of life journey was intensely personal to me. I did not know it would ever be possible, but I gained even more respect for this beautiful work we do, for Dr Jesne’s calm wisdom, Dr Jodi’s efficient running of Zazen and insight, Sr Claire’s gentleness and the abundant love our carers so generously give our patients.
Shelly’s mom slipped gracefully away this morning, a glorious pink rose from my garden on her chest. In the closing sentence of her book, it felt like a next chapter could start in Michelle and my story: a continuing of a friendship which has deepened because of sharing this profound moment.
It is not strange, and wonderful, that life keeps writing new chapters? Greg’s story reminded me what a strange gift it is to be present in someone’s story, even just for a few pages. Michelle’s mom reminded me that even goodbyes can be the start of new beginnings. My rekindled friendship with Michelle reminded me that some threads, once woven are never truly lost They only wait for the right moment to be picked up again. May we always make sure that we intentionally add love and grace to every sentence in every chapter of our lives, so that when they are read, they tell stories of love and kindness.