The Gift of "Late on Purpose"

 

In 1992, about two months after my Jackie-mom passed away, I received a sympathy card from a friend. It began; "Dear Pua, this is late on purpose..." and it went on to explain their own experiencewith the aftermath of the passing of a loved one.  This wise friend said that during her own grief journey, there was a time that came between 5 weeks to 2 months after, that felt like a void, or a vacuum.  A place where time seemed to either stand petrifyingly still, or just drag into minutes that felt like days.  A place where you weren't really sure how to identify the aftermath of the avalanche of feelings you had just experienced in the days and weeks that passed, but you settled on numbness. Sometimes, you felt devastatingly alone. 

The "must do's", and "time is of the essence" things had been ticked off the list. The initial shock had passed. Friends and family had been called. The services had been dealt with and the loved one's desires for their aftercare had been arranged. The arrivals of flowers, meals, and cards slowly waned or had now ceased. Cherished possessions had been dispersed to friends and loved ones as instructed. You walked through the spaces in the home where they once walked.  You touched the things that they once touched. You remember a moment, a memory, a scent, a sound. But they are not there. They are not there, and you still talk to them as if they are.  And now comes the numbing void.

She said she remembered thinking that she wished there was some sort of sign during that strange period of in-between, where you just needed a push to get from one stage of grief to the next. You could call it a kick in the butt, or a hug from afar. She just wished it came. And she decided then and there, that she would remember this for when someone she knew had a loss. She decided she was going to be the "Late on Purpose" person. 

That is when the "late on purpose" note arrives.  That is when, of all times, it was needed most.  That late on purpose lifeline saved me.  I was the mother of three very young children aged 6, 4, and 2.  Losing my mother at that time of my life was one of the most devastating and life-changing events that I had ever been through. I was there, in the aftermath, all the "urgent" things had been done. I was in what I called my "zombie phase".  Not here, not there, just functioning by rote because I had to. And out of the blue, when I thought I just couldn't face another day despite the fact I had the most supportive husband one could possibly be fortunate enough to have, this one very significant sympathy card arrived. In her wisdom, my friend reminded me that yes, there is something beyond that numbing void. That only when it is darkest, can we see the stars. "Go out and look at the stars, Pua".  So I did.  I still do. 

"Late on Purpose" was something that salvaged my broken heart then. But more than that, it became something that I felt was important that I pay forward. It was the absolute right thing to do.  For years now, when I send a sympathy card, it has always been a "Late on Purpose" card, sharing with the recipient the same loving gift my dear friend gave to me all those years ago. When my wise friend herself passed away, the woman who bestowed that generosity and kindness upon me all those years ago, I did the only appropriate thing. I sent that "LOP" card to her daughter, who said that was exactly the kind of thing her mother would do, and thanked me for sharing that with her.

It is only March, and I have already sent two LOPs.  To be honest, I'm so utterly devastated myself by the loss of one so dear to me, that I too, am struggling.  I'm standing in that weird in between place again. That numbing void. It feels larger, multiplied by the empathy I feel for someone whose loss of this dear one makes indulging in my grief seem selfish. And yet, it is real and painful and I know that for my own sanity, I need to acknowledge it.  So, I acknowledge it when I put pen to card and write those words "Dear Friend, this is late on purpose". When I do, I feel just a little bit of my own grief moving in the same way I hope the recipient's grief will move.  That we, both of us, can just take another step forward away from the numbing void.  One step toward healing for me while I write. One step away from grief for them while they read.

Tonight, I will go outside and look at the stars.