Dealing with it

To tell you the truth I hate to write about loneliness and death again, but it seems that these are inevitable experiences in my life. I sat with Dave Robbins recently, on a balmy evening outside with friends. He was so alive, so reverberating with kindness and humor; I even called a friend the next day to say, “Just a lovely evening with friends.”

I got the text the next day, “Did you hear about Dave?” I didn’t know him that well, but when I found out he had suddenly died of a heart attack, I freaked out.

How could we have had such a joyful conversation about life and rental prices and even the fact that he was 63 and hoping for more years ahead, and then, suddenly, be gone? Tonight I write this alone at my desk. I try to work with my feelings and emotional hairballs (I have more than my cat these days.) I struggle to recall being at Shambala Center on Sunday and hearing the discussion about how to live with life’s ups and downs…

But, feelings flood through me. I tried to allow my angst about lost loves and friends to dissolve and then I turned on TV to find Larry King interviewing the Dalai Lama. I turned it up almost too loud for the dog’s ears, longing to consume his wisdom. He believes when we pass away we still remain in consciousness somehow. He doesn’t allow emotions to bring him too far down.

So, I try to go through all the news in the paper and bend like bamboo in the wind, knowing that sleep will be a challenge. I crave peace amidst my worries and a world that disappoints me. Just getting there; then, I hear the awful news about Robin Williams’s suicide and I’m aghast again.

I flash back to two years after dad died — I had a vivid dream. He was bringing mom the most beautiful, silky and feminine white blouse. It shimmered with light all around it.

I excitedly called mom (she and I talked every day then) and waiting with anticipation to hear her response, there was a long pause. Then solemnly, she whispered, “Maybe he’s preparing it for me, like a robe when I join him.” I was disgruntled. I had naively imagined she would be excited instead of heavily serious.

A week later she called me one night at seven. I picked up the phone and again she was more hesitant than usual. Long pauses with mom meant there was something going on that she didn’t want to tell me. (She was a very strong Scorpio.) She asked, “Why did you pick up? You never get the phone at this hour; I was just going to leave a message.” I sighed, “Mom, I was just meditating and praying, which I don’t do too often.” She inquired, “What were you praying?” “Oh, I was pondering the serenity prayer ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.’“

That same night I couldn’t sleep and asked my (then) husband to sit with me at about 10:40 pm. I couldn’t stop sobbing but had no idea why. He rolled his eyes, the way guys sometimes do when their partner is the emotional one and they need to get to bed. I kept uttering, “My body is shaking. I don’t know what it is.” Then I was still. “I feel weird sensations, like something has lifted from me and I’m lighter again. “ We went back to sleep.

The next morning, I called mom. The policeman said she died at 11 p.m. the previous night. I must have joined her as she left her body.

Mom had been sick a long time. She was ready. Dying comes to those who don’t want it, and to some who do. Either way, love doesn’t go away; it stays in our souls.

Katy Byrne, MA, MFT is a Sonoma psychotherapist.