Читать книгу Embracing Life After Loss - Allen Klein - Страница 11

Opening Diary

Sunday, June 24

I have no sisters. I do, however, have a cousin who has been like a sister to me. We grew up together, shared many a happy moment at a Broadway show, and enjoyed numerous fun-filled meals together. And even though she lived on the East Coast and I on the West, we were very close.

Three days ago, I found out that she has leukemia. And, at her age of seventy-eight, the doctor doesn’t think the prognosis is very good.

I am very upset. I have not only felt like crying in the past few days but have actually done so several times. And while I haven’t consciously tried to find some humor in the situation (I am still in shock), there is a picture hanging on my wall in the hallway that brings a small smile to my face every time I see it.

It is of Bernice and some Disney-like character. The oversized bird’s bright yellow beak and Bernice’s nose are touching. Her face is glowing with laughter and joy.

This photo is the essence of Bernice’s spirit—upbeat and playful. It is a wonderful reminder to me that, although Bernice’s body may be going through turmoil right now, her bright spirit will remain forever.

Wednesday, July 4

Thoughts of Bernice are all-consuming. I wake up at night thinking of her. Every time the phone rings, my fear is that there is some bad news.

Wednesday, July 11

I’m out of town, attending a week-long conference in San Diego, California. The phone in my hotel room rings at two thirty in the morning. Without even answering it, I know exactly what has happened. I check out of the hotel and I’m on a plane to New York to arrange for the funeral and Bernice’s burial.

Friday, July 13

Bernice’s coffin is lowered into the ground. It is Friday the 13th.

Saturday, July 14

The day after the funeral, my daughter and I decide we need some quiet time together. We stay around Bernice’s apartment going through some of her possessions. In the afternoon, we take advantage of the unusually cool, for New York, summer weather and go to a nearby museum. There we spend time reflecting in a tranquil setting.

But the tranquility doesn’t last long. Unbeknownst to us, it is the museum’s annual fundraiser. When we enter the museum’s courtyard, hundreds of people are starting to gather. The DJ is working his musical magic, the band is getting ready to take over, and the crowd is anticipating the loud and lively late afternoon.

We get caught up in the festive scene, order a beer, and delight in watching the spectacle of the young New York art scene. There we sit, forgetting—at least for a while—that Bernice’s funeral occurred just a little over twenty-four hours before.

We also realize that the solitude we planned for that day was not to be. When the loud music gets a bit much for us, and the crowd starts to become overbearing, we head for one of Bernice’s favorite neighborhood restaurants. Just before our meal arrives, a young man takes a seat next to our table. With his guitar, he plays and sings songs by the Beatles, Paul Simon, and others. He invites us to sing with him. We do. Like the museum experience, the quiet dinner we anticipated did not happen.

But what did happen was spontaneous magic. Throughout the day, it was as if Bernice’s luminous spirit was saying to us, “You’ve cried enough. You’ve mourned enough. Now it’s time to partake in the music of life.”

Sunday, July 15

I think of two things Bernice told me. One she shared several months prior to her death. She said that she lived her life by what her mother taught her—to bring joy to at least one person each day.

The other thing she told me occurred when I was a teenager. It was about her world excursions. She was the first person I knew who traveled by airplane. I used to stand on the observation deck at LaGuardia Airport and wave to her as her plane took off. One day, I asked her if she was afraid that the plane might crash.

She said she wasn’t, but that if it did, she would want it to be on the return flight so that she would not miss a moment of her vacation. That was Bernice—never missing a moment of what life had to offer.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday…July, August, September…and the rest of the days.

I think of Bernice often, and with the music of her joyous spirit to guide me, I get on with life.