For me, the fear around dying is simple: what I stand for, what I believe in, will be forgotten. That there will be no one who will tell the stories or remember them that reflect who I was, what I did ( or didn’t do ).
At the memorial for Suzanne, I made some remarks. In these situations, I think part of trying to find comfort comes from remembering, reminiscing. And I did. I talked about Daniel, her third child who was about five when I lived with Suzanne and her family during my divorce. Daniel was willful, smart, trying to find his place in this remarkable household. And he and I bonded while I lived there. He would come to me, crawl up in my lap, let me comfort him. It was a time when I was only allowed to be with my own children twice a week and I missed them terribly. Daniel was my touchstone.
It was December in Chicago, so I bought a Chinese Red beret to keep me warm. I didn’t buy much during that time, because I didn’t have a job, and didn’t know how costly or how long my divorce was going to take. I like red. And, as it turned out, so did Daniel.
When I would walk in the door, he would hug me, then tug the red beret off my head and puffing up his chest, he would put it on his head and smile. It was so big, it came down to his chin.
Since it was Christmas, I wanted to give the children a gift. Especially to these children who had been my surrogate children, who had embraced me while I was trying to do the daunting task of working out the future of my own children with the least trauma and hurt possible.
The Ryan children loved peppermint ice cream. So, I put it a pint in each of their stockings. Except for Daniel. For Daniel, I wrapped up the red beret. He wore it for his performance in the Christmas pageant ( probably much to the chagrin of his teacher ), and he wore it everywhere we went during the holiday.
Today, I asked Daniel if he remembered the red beret. He didn’t. But he remembered me, he embraced me. He's a successful CPA now with two babies and all the exigencies that implies. I told him how proud his mother was of him. She never gave up on him through his tumultuous adolescence, And he knew it. Today, in the midst of his sorrow, he knew it.
Earlier in the day, as I waited to sign the guest book, I looked at a poster that one of Suzanne’s kids had prepared for the memorial.There were pictures of her when she was a teenager, big hoop skirts and black rimmed, cat's eye glasses, clippings from the Pontiac, Michigan Post about her accomplishments ( including valedictorian, of course! ).
In a far corner of the poster, there was a quote in Suzanne’s very precise printing:
It isn’t about the duration of your life
It’s about the donation of your life.
Catherine Marshall
I laughed to myself. Why did I just happen to stumble over that particular quote on that huge poster? I will always believe she put that specific quote there just for me somehow. Here were her last words to me--with a wink and a nod, saying: " I was done,dear one, finished with my work. You'll-be-fine."
Legacies aren’t orchestrated, aren’t choreographed. They happen because people touch others in a significant way, often in ways unknown to them at the time.
I went to Chicago to say goodbye to my dear friend, my soulmate. I mourn the duration of her life. But the donation? The donation is infinite.
Goodbye, Suzanne. Goodbye.
M.C.
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