There are so many things to be counted as loss with Sarah’s passing, and I am too sad to try to enumerate them here or perhaps ever again.
But during the past eight months, as I sat day and night by her side, the two of us often alone and Sarah so often afraid and in pain, I don’t know how Sarah, or I, would have managed to get by – and I say this on Sarah’s behalf because she and I talked about all of these things.
Were it not for your generosity – Lesley’s cake pops and kindness; Adam’s warmth and his humour; Gina’s passion and her lightweight computer (insert smiling face); Kathy’s lunchtime visits at Bruyere, and her cupcake store treat; Crystal’s – where to begin? – masked worries and fears; her constancy; her directness; her gathering of friends; the manicures and massages...everyone bringing us meals and treats (oh, the Pepsi!) and offers of rides, restaurant vouchers, and company – even a surprise birthday party for me, arranged by my daughter and Mary one week before Sarah’s death – I can hardly tally it all.
And there were the nurses; the doctors; the volunteers; the social workers; the attendants and aids, all of them fervent and diligent, falling in love with this marvellous girl who never once lost her courage or her quick-witted humour, wanting for her to feel better; to find a path to recovery, a way not to feel scared.
And there was Noam, her brother, who loved her with a tender-hearted spirit that he learned from his father; ever-present; always funny; steadfastly gentle and kind, rubbing and soothing and kissing away what he could, holding her hand and giving her peace.
And of course there was Mary, Sarah’s repository for all things sacred; the place where Sarah put all of her trust; the woman Sarah called her second mum; the person who made Sarah feel safe when it seemed as if the world had ripped open beneath her and swallowed her whole.
Dorothy Parker made me laugh out loud many times over with her tales of false friends – those who dared lay claim to the dead. And I think of how often I have heard or read anecdotes such as these about people who need to extol a dying person’s virtues (and in so doing extol, and exonerate, themselves), while having remained largely absent, lost in the romance of their own enabling fictions.
But such was not the case with any of these incredible people to whom Sarah was, and I am, eternally grateful. I am going to miss your generosity, your laughter, your conversation, your honesty, as well as your acceptance of Mary as my partner: Mary who loved my daughter as if Sarah were her own, and who came to understand why Sarah loved all of you so.
You made all of the difference in Sarah’s young life: you gave her hope, courage, sustenance, safety, guidance, loyalty, hours and hours of your time, and a strong sense that life, no matter how feeble or menacing, is always worth living.
