Column: Coping with death while preparing for the unthinkable

It was a workshop day in the district where I work as a school librarian, so the students had a day off. It was just us teachers, all gathered at the high school. As I walked across the food court, going from one workshop session to the next, I heard my name. I walked over to the colleague who had called to me, and saw that she was crying.

“Mary died,” she said.

I immediately burst into tears.

It’s hard to lose a friend, but harder still when your friend is only in her 60s. So hard when your friend fought so courageously to stay alive.

As I tried to compose myself, I saw that other colleagues were gathered at the table, their faces tear-streaked. We had all worked with Mary at the middle school, and gathered together each summer at the annual garden party she held at her rural home.

She retired a few years ago, but continued to host the parties. We grew to appreciate them more each year, as members of our group retired and moved on from the school district. It was a good time to catch up.

I shouldn’t have been so shocked by the news that Mary had passed. Just two days before I’d been talking to a mutual friend. Though the last news we’d heard had been hopeful, the most recent update was not. But I told myself that Mary had overcome the odds before, and would again. I guess I didn’t want to think about the possibility that this time she might not.

My next session at the workshop was a training in “active shooter” scenarios. This program, run by our local police department, was designed to help school personnel prepare for our worst nightmare—a school shooting. I know at least one of my colleagues was unable to participate because she was so upset by the news about Mary. I understood; when you’ve just heard that a friend has died, you may not want to be in a situation where bullets—though fake and harmless—would be flying around.

I, however, saw it as a distraction. For 75 minutes, I wouldn’t be able to think of anything but the events that were going on around me.

That session was an emotional experience in itself, so I was glad the next program was mindfulness training.

I have quite a bit of experience in this area, but I’m always willing to learn more. As a college student in the 1970s, I learned the Transcendental Meditation technique, which I practice to this day. I did have some trepidation about sitting quietly while I had so many sorrowful thoughts zooming around in my mind, but I tried to maintain confidence in my ability to “empty my head.”

To be mindful, one must let go. This is antithetical to the western notion of “no pain, no gain.” You can’t work hard to be in the moment. You just have to be, and gently push thoughts—negative or positive—out of the way. They will return; they are persistent. So you just gently push them aside once more.

We did a sitting meditation. We did a walking meditation. I’d never done the latter before and liked it. The only problem was that we were in the library, and even though I’m the librarian, I kept glimpsing books that looked interesting, and that I had apparently forgotten about.

To wrap up the session, the facilitator passed around a “talking stone.” Native Americans used “talking sticks” in group discussions; whoever held the stick had the floor. Same idea. I got the stone first.

I said, “This session has been a blessing for me today, because today my colleagues and I heard we have lost a friend.”

I managed not to cry, but my voice wavered. I spoke briefly about Mary, what a good teacher and person she was, and that I was trying to imagine her in her garden. Then I passed the stone on.

Others who knew her also said a few words. At the end, the facilitator, noting that people had spoken about Mary in the first session as well, asked us to close our eyes for a moment of remembrance.

The world moves in mysterious ways. Though truly, deeply sad, I could be grateful that I was in the midst of a group of kind, familiar faces on the day I heard the news. I was able to share my grief.

I’ll never forget that moment of silent reflection for Mary. It’s hard to lose a friend, but by sitting with kindred spirits and honoring her, I felt a small corner of my soul begin to heal.