It Hurts

My friend, Kathy, lost her husband on January 18, 2020. She had been his care-giver. Their home was visited almost daily by friends and a devoted team of home-care and hospice-care helpers. For weeks now, she and their dog and cat are there. The pandemic means EVERYTHING social is lost. It hurts.

Yesterday was to have been the college graduation ceremony of our only granddaughter, Courtney Nicole Ross. All face-to-face classes at UTC went online Monday, March 23, and for the remainder of the spring 2020 semester. Courtney is the first female college graduate in my line. With all A’s and B’s, she has graduated, but the ceremony and our family gathering together to celebrate as we watched her walk in her cap and gown did not happen. It hurts.

My client/friend/colleague, Bonnie, passed away from COVID-19 in a hospital—a hospital her family was not allowed to enter. I had to decline an invitation to come offer a brief ceremony at the funeral home or cemetery, saying, “Let’s wait and honor her Celebration of Life when we can be together.” It hurts.

In May of 2003, my mom was nearing the completion of her transition. I was finally alone with her for a few moments. I began to spontaneously sing (badly) a made-up song, “Momma’s gonna get a brand new pair of wings, fly, Momma, fly….”

A social worker walked in and, embarrassed, I stopped singing.

The social worker softly whispered, “Please, go on….”

I continued to sing until I felt my mom’s center of gravity shift from her material body to her energy body. My mom’s face softened into a beautiful shade of pink as she relaxed into her wings.

Moments later my sister and her son and daughter-in-law and their young son returned from having gone to get something to eat. I knew it was OK for me to leave. It hurts.

Soon after, my sister was alone with our mom. My sister said, “Mom, I would really like to be with you as you cross. If you want me to be with you, it is time, because I am very tired and I need to go home soon.”

Three minutes later, our mom was soaring with her brand new pair of wings.

Old doors do close so new ones can open. We don’t have to get stuck on what fell apart just because it hurts. The transformation of humanity and our soaring with new wings requires growth and letting go.

I found myself singing another ditty about flying with new wings while I was out riding my bike wearing my mask.

I sent the voice memo titled “My Bonnie” to Bonnie’s daughter, Melody.

It makes me laugh because my Bonnie had a semi-professional singing voice!