The Pain of Letting Go

I sit in the early morning hours. It’s still dark out and my light is that of a candle. I think of how it was before electricity, though I am typing by the glow of the laptop screen, running on battery power. Two hundred years ago I’d be writing on coarse paper with the stub of a pencil.

My thoughts are unformed as of yet. More coffee. I want to write an essay about a lovely friend I’ll probably never see in this lifetime other than through video phone calls. And those may be over. She is dying over a thousand miles away. She cannot read my texts, or hear me, well maybe she can. I don’t know. Her mother put her phone to her ear to listen to me, but she didn’t respond.

To say I am sad is an understatement. I’m grieving her and she isn’t even dead yet. But the prognosis is poor. Every day I expect to read she has gone home.  But she is lingering, and I think it’s because her mother won’t let her go. Yes, I have prayed hard for a miracle, but lately I have chosen to pray for God’s merciful best for her. And as I type this I am crying because letting go means losing a part of your heart, and the pain, oh the pain.

This time of year, Christmas, brings its own set of sorrows. My mother died two weeks before Christmas a few years back. I had to let her go because she was lingering in pain. I whispered in her ear it was okay to let go. She spoke and weakly said thank you. The next day she didn’t wake up, just laid there unconscious. She was still breathing when I went to get another cup of coffee. A few minutes later when I returned to her bedside, she was gone. 

My father had died near the holidays about eight years earlier. This just compounded the pain. I remember thinking I am an orphan now. No one to give me advice or the love only parents can give.

My heart broke with the pain only death produces. It is a unique sorrow. And I feel it now. It’s hidden grief I carry for them, even though I know they are supremely joyous and young again, pain-free, no sorrows. I remember my mother’s pain each time a friend died.  She was feeling more alone and very old. When her best friend died, she was inconsolable for a while. They had coffee together every morning for many years.

My friend and I have texted daily for years. The texts have stopped. She is unable to communicate, and I wonder if she is in pain, fear, or panic. My tears are for her as well as for me. I may lose a person I had daily contact with, just like my mother. And I don’t have my mother to tell me how long it hurt. How she got through it. Because friends are different than family. You tell them things you could never tell your family, as much as you love them. You play together, laugh together, cry together, share burdens together. It’s a bond completely different than that of a beloved spouse.

This morning I cry. I cry for my parents. I cry for the state of my friend who told me she just wants to go home. She has suffered her whole life and is so very weary of the continual pain. I get it. And I’m letting go. But dear God in heaven, this hurts. Christmas hurts. Yet I remember the words of David, Thou art always with me. Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me. Please send your comfort.