TOTAL ECLIPSE of MY HEART

**possible sensitive content: sudden, unexpected death of an adult child**

Dear Nancy,

As I sit here lost in thought on the eve of the total eclipse of the sun, I’m trying to think about something funny or witty about tomorrow’s big event, but nothing is coming to me. There’s just nothing funny on my mind right now.

So I turn to poetry instead. I write a catchy line about the sunset cremating the sky over the ocean at Pescadero. I saw that “cremation” decades ago when death was the furthest thing from my much younger mind. And then your email arrives. 

You tell me you’re on the way to the funeral parlour to discuss Cindy’s cremation. This mother’s heart skips a beat. I can’t breathe. When my heart returns to its job of keeping my 78-year-old body alive, I can’t help but ask why. Why you, not me? Am I somehow luckier? I have two daughters. You had only Cindy, your “angel” as you called her over and over in your grief-laden facebook posts. And my heart skips another beat.

How does a mother cremate her angel? When I had my father cremated, well, he deserved no more. End of story. When we cremated mom, it was our only way to keep her with us a bit longer. She is still resting comfortably on a shelf inside our dining room hutch. When my sister-in-law cremated her beloved husband whose heart gave out when he took one last ride on his surf-board, we took comfort knowing he spent his last morning doing what he loved. And when my dear neighbour cremated her only son a year ago, there was some comfort…not much…in knowing his life-long battle with a brain tumor that fully blinded him those last couple of years was finally over. Tomorrow’s eclipse is something he never would have seen anyway. 

But Cindy would have. Would she and her three children have gotten together with you for an eclipse party, complete with special glasses, some pop for the children and wine for the two of you to share this once-in-a-lifetime event? Instead, she left you with a once-in-a-lifetime experience you never saw coming. And what about the neighbour who looked in on Cindy when you couldn’t reach her? I can’t help but think about her too. How did she feel when she had to call you back? How do you tell a mother her angel was unresponsive? Gone. Now that’s what I call a total eclipse. No brilliant corona or waves of colour promising the sun will re-appear in two to three minutes. A total, unending eclipse.

In a way, I envy you. You are spiritual, an “intuitive”. You have spent years travelling to and from Tibet. You’ve even met the Dalai Lama. You embrace the tenets of Buddhism, and from what I’ve read about Buddhism, you have no doubt trained yourself to see death, at least your own, as something of which to be mindful, but on which not to be fixated. Good advice. 

But I really need to know the answer to this: is Buddha’s wisdom helping you now as you try to process Cindy’s unexpected passing? My younger daughter, who sees you as her second mother, reminds me you are strong. So am I. But could I handle her or her sister’s unexpected death? I’ve always believed there is no greater pain than a child pre-deceasing a parent. Is there? I guess you know the answer to that question now. Or is it still too soon to tell? Too soon for me to ask? I suspect your answer is what I’m afraid of. Despite that wise advice from Buddha, I relate to what has happened to you way too much and it’s knocking me sideways. A total eclipse of my heart. 

Unfortunately, I’m not a follower of any religion, organized or otherwise. The God in whom the nuns with their rulers and rosary beads told me to believe wasn’t there when I really needed him (her?) as a teenager, so I abandoned that God and never found a suitable replacement. Is there one? No wonder so many still believe in a God or Allah or whatever name people have for Hope. The way I see it, when everything is gone, only hope gives us the strength or will to carry on. That is all I have to cling to nowadays. I’m happy that you, at least, have more. 

I see Buddhism also teaches that “while death is certain, the time of death is uncertain”. Touche. Didn’t Shakespeare say something like ‘therein lies the rub’. Ah yes indeed! As my husband said this morning while I cried thinking about your loss: “Birth is never assured but death is guaranteed.”

Say, do you remember that Dusty Springfield song that hit #1 in our teens, “The End of the World”? As I walked around my backyard very early this morning, the sun was warm on my face, birds were tweeting non-stop, and the cloudless skies were ever so blue. It was such a glorious morning until I could hear Dusty asking “Why does the sun go on shining? Why do these eyes of mine cry?” She wanted to know how life could go on as usual while she was dying inside. Is that what it feels like now, Nancy? Never mind. Don’t answer. I don’t think I want to know. 

Nancy, It’s taken all day for me to write this to you. I’ve been watching the skies, taking breaks and wondering if we’ll be able to watch the eclipse tomorrow after all. The forecast is calling for clouds and possibly even rain. In fact, looking toward the horizon now, I can see clouds already gathering. I guess there’s a lot of people, those who have booked hotels in our city and especially in Niagara Falls who are going to be very disappointed if they don’t get to see this once-in-a-lifetime event. Won’t worry me. As I said above, what has happened to Cindy and you has totally eclipsed my heart. I don’t need to see more darkness.

On a parting note, I hope it’s not too soon to send you this, but here’s a little something I wrote for you when I got the news:

I could send you bouquets of flowers

But, what good would they do?

This day of April showers

Will not bring her back to you

I cannot begin to imagine

The depth of your heartache and sorrow

The thought that you can’t just pick up a phone

And speak to her tomorrow

If i could press a button

To make yesterday rewind

I would do it in a heartbeat

If it would bring you peace of mind

But I feel beyond inadequate

As I search for a comforting word

Because I know there really isn’t one

That you haven’t already heard

So instead of flowers, take this poem

Of thoughts that fail to say

How much I share your tears

That words can’t wipe away.

Your friend,

Viga