Some words on loss, and sunsets

It was the strangest thing. I remember waking, showering, then stumbling around my room trying to decide what to wear. I remember the thought “what do you pick out on the day someone dies?” I put my hair up. Chose favorite jeans and a comfy sweater. Shoes that I loved (that my brother later commented were pretty ‘interesting’ (I still love them)).

It just all felt so surreal. That on the day you will lose someone who means so much to you, you still have to get up and get dressed. Brush your teeth. Move through the world like any other day. But it was not the same. I could feel it in every cell.

It was 3 days since I received the call from dad’s facility telling us it was getting closer. One day since they called again to say we could finally come in to see him “while he was still responsive.” I made the calls, facilitated family visiting. But was also stuck. I was at the end of a COVID close contact quarantine and waiting out the hours. On the precipice of something that I knew would change me forever. Yet still having to function. Shift sessions, contact colleagues. Feel the weight of something I could not control.

Like the largest boulder had begun to move, ever so slightly, and I could anticipate but not stop its pummeling of me. When I got the call that I could come in a force unseen swooped in. I was fighting the minutes. The boulder was coming suddenly so fast and what was frozen terror turned into a panicked flight. I was trying to outrun it. Not to survive. But to see the sunset one more time as it hit.

There is no description more perfect than a sunset. Even though I knew where we were going, that darkness was coming, I could not look away. Not for a second. I wanted to soak in every beautiful minute. Watch the colors slowly shift from bright burning orange, purple, pink to deep dark blue. Watch what feels like the slowest most subtle change to completely different all at once. How long does it take the sunset to happen? I googled it just to see. There is this huge equation that in the end equals 2.2 minutes. But is varied dependent on how close you are to the equator. Which season it is.

Again, perfect. So complex, nuanced….and also one instant. My instant was roughly 8 hours.

I will never forget that moment that I was finally next to him. Hand on his arm, covered in PPE, face to face with those eyes that looked like grey up close. Getting to say a “Hi” that was warm and deep with knowing and emotion but still nevertheless one syllable.

I remember my brother getting choked up at his response to me. There were no more words. But his face lit, his lips moved. No sound.  “I see you,” I said. And I told him it was ok, that we didn’t have to say the words because we both already knew it all. I knew how much this man loved me. And how proud he was of me. And that he missed me. That he was glad I was there. But I did give him my words. I told him that he saved me, and that everything good I am was because of him. And that I loved him so so much. I held his hand and he could still squeeze some. He knew I was there and knew it was me.

And then, just like with a sunset, I became entranced. Pure witness. I did not want to look away. To miss one breath or one knowing connection. The shape of his nose. How his hand felt in mine. I brought my awareness to every piece of him I could. Not to hold onto, but to breathe it in. Feel it in every fiber of my being. Take in every turn and twist of the color.

Others came and went. I stayed. This was a gift my brother gave me. Only two at a time. He spoke with someone on the phone, saying he wanted to protect my being with him. That he would switch out for others who wanted to come. “She is not leaving him. He is responding to her. No words, but he knows she is here.” I do not think I have ever felt more seen by someone I share blood with. Ever.

I could feel in all others that visited the sorrow setting in. The words and response that were there yesterday had passed. I felt so grateful that others were able to experience those, and that this moment was mine. We didn’t need the words, we just needed to be. With each other.

The hours dwindled. In the end it was me, my brother, and my mother. She had been restless most of the day, but then finally settled. As if something in her could sense. We sat around him and were just present. The connection in his eyes had dimmed hours ago. But his breath was still there.

In a quiet moment it started to change. We watched. My brother asked me to talk to him. Again, I gave him my words. Hushes, we love you, it’s ok to let go. There was a sound that felt foreign, my brain was trying to place. Make meaning out of. It was tears. The sobbing kind. I felt witnessed in my witnessing by the family around me and again more seen than I ever have been.

Then he just stopped. And my tears came as well. Not sorrowful tears. But tears shed in awe of the peace. So much delicate and precious beauty that it made me ache. A sunset that is forever etched in my memory and my nervous system (visceral memory).

As I close my eyes and think of it now, I can still feel it. Still see all of the colors. And my heart swells.

Post Script:

So I imagine some might wonder why, as a professional and on my professional website, I am sharing something so personal. If you click around on here you will find that I believe deeply in the human experience. An integral part of our human experience is pain and grief. This is something we will all encounter in many varying forms throughout our lives.

I also believe in shared humanity. There is no healed and broken. We are all traveling our path. Clinician and client alike. Joy, pain, and everything in between is our birthright and our burden.

Yes, this blog will include psychoeducation or professional topics. It will also include windows into my own human experience. To remind us all that while there are sometimes logistics and boundaries placed in relationships (especially professional ones, like with a counselor and client), we are all on the same path. Working with the same human experience.

This is a moment of pain and beginning of a grief process that started a year ago for me. What happened between now and then for me emotionally is another story for another day. But this moment was important to me. It both broke me open and grounded me in myself, all at the same time.

This share was my experience of an event and relationship in my life. Please remember, that there is no right way to experience relationships, situations, or emotions. If you do not identify with anything I shared, that is not only perfectly normal…it is welcomed. I shared my experience only as an invitation for you to make space for yours. All of our stories are important. All stories deserve space.