An Excerpt of My Life . . .
Saying Goodbye
Yesterday I said goodbye to a close friend. I told her I loved her, that knowing her has been one of the highlights of my life, and how grateful I am for her friendship and support of both We Save Lives and me personally. She has been a mentor, and as a psychologist, an advisor during some difficult personal moments. She edited my blogs, invested in We Save Lives financially, and became a member of our advisory board.
Her name is Dr. Linda Tucker. I first met her after she invited me to be a guest on her podcast. I agreed willingly, and to this day it remains one of my favorites because we didn’t spend all our time talking about MADD. We later met in person when I lived in Florida and she was visiting a sick aunt. We instantly clicked. Have you ever had that happen with someone? I grew to love her and her partner, Kim.
Before we ended our conversation yesterday, I asked Linda to give Cari a big hug for me if she sees her. She told me she would.
Yes, Linda is dying. She has pancreatic cancer and only has weeks to live.
This isn’t the first time I’ve said goodbye, and it won’t be the last.
The first time was with my father. He also had cancer, and after years of treatment he entered hospice care. My son and I had just visited him at my sister’s home and on the drive back I realized it would probably be the last time I would see him alive.
At the time, I was writing my book, Giving Sorrow Words: How to Cope with Grief and Get on With Your Life. During my research on grief and mourning, I learned how important it is to say goodbye. My son and I talked about what we needed to say, and I even read excerpts from my research to him.
As we spoke to my father, he kept saying, “I don’t know why we’re having this conversation. I’m not going anywhere.”
At the time he was bedridden, hooked to morphine, unable to get out of bed, surrounded by hospice workers, my sister, and my aunt. Still, he insisted, “You don’t have to say goodbye. I’m staying right here.”
My son and I said what we needed to say anyway. When he once again asked, “Why are you calling?” I finally responded, “Because you are going to die, Dad.”
It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever said. But my research had taught me the value of letting someone go and giving them permission to die.
My aunt and sister had planned to say goodbye to him after I did, but after seeing his reaction to our conversation, they decided to wait until the next day.
He died during the night.
Both later told me they regretted not following my example.
Another time, I was preparing to board a flight to visit my friend Judy, who was also dying of cancer, when her daughter called to tell me Judy would not live long enough for me to get there. I yelled my goodbye through the phone so Judy could hear me and again asked Judy to give Cari a big hug for me.
When one of my best friends, Susi, was dying, I was living in Virginia and she was in Florida. I asked her what was on her bucket list that we could still do together before she died. She told me she had never been to a spa.
So I planned a spa day near her home and booked my flight. I described every detail to her — the massages, the pampering, and the relaxation. We laughed together as I painted the picture for her. Even though I knew she was nearing the end, it brought me joy to give her joy.
I had known Susi since the eighth grade. When I arrived from Germany pregnant and frightened, she welcomed me into the commune she was living in, and later I stayed with her family after we left. She too had been an “unwed mother” and had given her baby up for adoption. She even named her daughter Candy after me.
I chose to keep my twins, and for a long time that difference separated us. Years later, thanks to my Verdun High School roommate Bobbi, we reconnected after I moved to Florida.
I loved Susi deeply. She made me laugh more than almost anyone else in my life. In fact, most of our time together was spent laughing. We shared the same sharp sarcasm and thought we were hysterically funny. God, we were witty.
I’ve never understood why everyone else didn’t appreciate my sarcasm the way she did.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to Susi in person. But when she told me she was dying, I asked her to find Cari and give her my love.
Susi died before I could get there.
I used to fear death. After Cari died, that fear disappeared.
Henry David Thoreau wrote, “Even the death of friends will inspire us as much as their lives.” Friends do die. But they also live on within us — in our memories, our laughter, our grief, and our love.
And perhaps, if we are lucky, they continue waiting for us somewhere beyond this life, ready to deliver the messages we asked them to carry.
Candace Lighter, Activist and Founder,
We Save Lives
Mothers Against Drunk Driving