A commentary by a local writer and playwright; his website is leirenyoung.com
A few hours ago, I wrote a eulogy for one of my closest friends. She’s still alive, but she won’t be for much longer. No, she doesn’t have COVID-19. She’s dying of one of the classics — cancer.
When I last saw her in the cancer ward in Toronto — the last time I’ll ever see her — she asked if I’d write something for her Celebration of Life. Actually, she asked me to write “something funny” for her Celebration of Life. She was sick enough that just after we saw each other, she scheduled a date for that celebration.
That was BC19 — Before COVID-19.
Since then, her death hasn’t been postponed, but her memorial has.
I’ve been writing her eulogy in my head since the moment she asked me to — trying to find a balance between tasteless and tactful, comedy and heartbreak, laughter and tears.
Last night, as I realized that I may be saying goodbye to more friends soon — that we all may be saying goodbye to friends soon — I knew I had to write her eulogy in time to send it to her.
I was lucky enough to get a proper final visit — to tell her how much I loved her while she was still healthy enough to hear what I was saying — but I wasn’t just writing this about her, I was writing it for her. I stayed up all night, tuned out the Coronapocalypse and wrote about my friend — trying to find the laughs she’d asked for.
A few years ago, I had several friends die suddenly. Unexpectedly.
There were no goodbyes. There was no last chance to reminisce or apologize or laugh or hold each other until words were redundant.
I wrote their eulogies and tributes and, sometimes, their obituaries — because that’s what writers get to do when friends die. After the third death — because aren’t there always three? — I wondered why I’d almost never written about what people meant to me while they were still around.
Over the next few weeks, I wrote a few stories for and about the angels in my life — tributes to the living, instead of remembrances of the dead.
I also reached out to a few people I hadn’t thought of in years — or decades — to let them know what they meant to me, ways they’d helped or inspired me. In some cases, I told them things they were completely unaware of.
Then I stopped. Everyone I wrote to and about seemed happy with what I’d shared — but the idea seemed too sentimental, too chicken-soupy for my soul and I didn’t have time to write eulogies for the living. Besides, they weren’t going anywhere any time soon.
I stayed in the habit of setting a few hours aside each month to check in with people I loved who live in different places — letters and emails and, when I had to, the data-mining monster that is Facebook.
But it’s time to start writing those tributes again. And I know the idea is sentimental and chicken-soupy — but I suddenly have time and, more than ever, I can’t be certain they’re not going anywhere.
Or I’m not.
So, if you’re looking for something to do while you’re in self-isolation — write a tribute to someone you love — or everyone you love, or everyone you’ve ever loved and anyone who lit up or lights up your world. Think about the stories you’d share if you woke up to discover they were gone. Think of the stories that make you smile and savour those smiles.
Let them know how you feel. Maybe share them on social media or anti-social media. Think of it as care mail or, if you live online, #CAREMAIL.
If writing isn’t your cup of alphabet soup, make a call, send a text or carve out a few minutes between comfort binges of old sitcoms and new reality shows to check in with the people who helped add some magic to your life and add a bit of magic to theirs.
Netflix will still be waiting for you.
In the wise words of one of my favourite humans, author Spider Robinson: “Shared pain is lessened. Shared joy is increased. Thus we refute entropy.”
It’s also how we refute fear, disappointment and loneliness. Stay safe, stay sane and since we’re all social-distancing, let your friends know how much you wish you could hug them.
In memory of Andrea Moodie
