GriefPerspectives
 

Editor’s Note. This month, GriefPerspectives welcomes back Carolyn Streett, daughter to Dr. Bill Hoy. This article is Carolyn’s reflection on the unexpected death of a friend and former colleague at the age of 36 and demonstrates the poignancy of new grief that is sometimes forgotten by those of us who care professionally for those suffering loss. After the birth of their daughter, Sydney, Carolyn left her corporate career to be a full-time wife and mom. She also runs a freelance writing practice and can be contacted at www.CarolynStreett.com.

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The front wheels were turned hard to the left. That’s how they have to be when you’re backing out of our driveway, if you want to avoid scraping the bottom of the car.
The car was half out, half in the driveway.
Sydney was buckled into her car seat with her milk and some graham crackers. So far, she’s kept her shoes on. Good. Jet was in the passenger seat, a little tangled in his leash. Hopefully he’ll get settled and not bother me once we’re on the road.
The shadows from the houses were long, so the neighborhood was unusually shady.
The grass was a little wet with morning dew, or maybe the sprinklers had run that morning at 3 a.m. like they sometimes do. I don’t know. I don’t know what days the sprinklers run.
That’s when the phone rang, and it was her name. She never calls. But yes, the phone was ringing; it wasn’t a text on the Carplay screen. But it was awfully early on a Saturday morning for her to be trying to reach me.

 

I answered. Part of me was curious; part of me was bracing for bad news about the writing gig we’d worked on together. The company probably hated it. Oh, I was about to be so embarrassed. Yes, it was definitely the writing gig. Why else would she call?
Her voice sounded normal but maybe with a hint of bad news. But…she always handles the worst of the bad news at work. She’s so used to delivering it that her “bad news” voice isn’t all that distinct.
It seems like it took her forever to get to the point, but I know it didn’t because I was still there, hovering half on, half off the driveway when she told me. No cars had passed me there half on, half off, wondering what I was doing.
She told the story so matter-of-factly. Our friend had accidentally fallen from the roof of her home a few weeks before, remember? And she had gotten pins in her arm, because the bone had been sticking out, remember? And yesterday was the surgery to remove the pins, remember? Only, something had gone wrong, and hours after the surgery she had gone into cardiac arrest, and she…”hadn’t made it.” Those were the words. I remember them clearly. Our friend hadn’t made it.

Remember. Yes, I remember. She had asked me to pray for her before the surgery, but I hadn’t really, because it was a simple arm surgery. And Friday was a busy day, although now, I don’t remember why.
Remember. Yes, I’d remembered her surgery. I’d been up early on Friday morning to teach. I had awakened early to an email from Hawaiian Airlines that our flight had been changed or canceled or something. The email wasn’t clear. I had texted both of them—the girl who was on the phone with me now, and the one who was…not. I’d texted them about the flight, and a quick well wishes on the surgery. It all seemed so insignificant now, that stupid two-hour layover in paradise that had been so annoying 28 hours earlier.
Remember. No, I don’t remember what I was doing at 9 a.m. on Friday. Or 1 p.m. Or that night at 6 p.m. when the slurring of words apparently began. Or that night at 8 p.m. when they “called it.” I don’t remember what I was doing. I remember wondering about the surgery, but she wasn’t a great texter, and it was a simple surgery, remember? She probably just hadn’t remembered to text me.
I remember almost hitting the mailbox that Saturday morning as I turned the wheel right to bring the car the rest of the way into the road. Or maybe I had clearance. I don’t know. But now I was late. I had to get to my commitment at the dog park on time, so it was time to go. I couldn’t just sit here, half on, half off. I was already late.
I remember the words coming from my mouth automatically as I turned the car into the road. Years of hearing and learning from Dad could only help me muster: “I’m so sorry.” Because this was her best friend on the phone, telling me matter-of-factly that our friend was gone, and I was wondering, how was she so ok? This was her best friend, telling me when the services would be. Asking for advice on what to do about the viewing at the hospital today.
“I’m so sorry” are the only words I remember clearly from that conversation, but I remember that day with picture-perfect clarity. And I remember our friend’s giggle when she had exciting news. And I remember the way she would scoot into my cubicle at work to whisper the latest gossip. And I remember the care she showed me when I had pregnancy worries, and I remember her disbelief that we could have an ice slide in October when she came to the fall festival at church.
And I remember her texts appearing on my phone like it was yesterday, because it almost was. It’s only been a week since that text where she asked me to remember to pray for her surgery.
But it was a simple surgery, remember?

Association of Death Education & Counseling
 

McKelvey, D. K., & Bustard, N. (2021). Every moment Holy. death, grief, and hope. Nashville, TN: Rabbit Room Press.
 
Reviewed by Molly A. Keating, MA, CT
Editor, GriefPerspectives
It feels fitting that this Holy Week we would highlight an upcoming release of the second Volume of Every Moment Holy. Written specifically on "death, grief, and hope" this edition of liturgies is tailor-made for the bereaved.

The book is broken down into 4 sections, seasons of dying, seasons of grieving, liturgies for the journey and for the moment. 

Touching on subjects like getting bad news, choosing medical plans, facing medical loss, children facing grief, and preparing for the final hours, the liturgies contained in this book span multiple experiences of grief. 

These new liturgies for the every-day life are reminders that even in experiences like grief and loss, there can be solace, comfort, and holy moments waiting for us.