Sorrow

I glance in the mirror, and I look old. And haggard.

My last birthday, friends were still joking that I was doing a Benjamin Button, getting younger every year.

2024 has not been easy. My ruptured appendix in January, compounded by a melanoma, put paid to my surfing season and led to cancelling of travel plans and an early return to Canada from Barbados.

But much good can come from what seems like the bad. I sold my condo in Victoria and we found the perfect townhouse up-Island, with water views and restaurants within walking distance. We explored Vancouver Island and surfed on the Wild West Coast. I was able to spend so much time with my wonderful family.

We visited my son where he was working for the summer and went spelunking. After having successfully navigated four caves, I slipped in mud when we were heading back to the car, and broke my arm.

I approached it as another new experience. I’d never broken a bone before, nor had any of my siblings or children. There were lessons there, too. Trying to do too much as we moved into our new home (despite all of Scott’s and my sister’s attempts to restrain me) meant my arm needed to be reset— a physically and mentally painful lesson about taking help from others.

And on the day that my arm was reset, my son died.

A ruptured appendix, a broken arm, a divorce? They don’t even register on my pain scale anymore.

And maybe that was the purpose of all of those, to prepare me for the unimaginable. My ruptured appendix reminded me of the possibility, the inevitability, of death, and brought me home earlier so I had an extra two months of visiting with my son. My broken arm taught me to rely more on the wonderful people around me, and prevented me from using my preferred avoidance strategy of frantic activity. My unexpected divorce, after 30 years of marriage, broke me down and forced me to confront who I was, my shaky base, and to rebuild on a stronger foundation. I learned what helped me cope, and what didn’t.

My brother Eric was 72 when he died, and my mother kept saying, it’s not right, that a child die before their parent. He was the youngest person to die in my family, up to now. Like so many who are blessed, I didn’t understand how lucky I was.

My son was 27.

I don’t know if I will ever stop crying.

I say all the things. At least I have such wonderful memories. He may miss joy, but he’ll also miss a lot of sorrow. Everyone dies. I have Scott and my sisters. It has brought my daughter and me closer, and smoothed my relationship with their father. I have so many friends and relatives who send me their love and caring and sympathy.

I lift my eyes from my keyboard and see the beauty of the sunset over the water and mountains.

And maybe someday, I won’t be looking at it through tears.