Laughing and Crying

Last weekend B. and I went with Chris and a couple of other friends of K.B.’s to a burlesque show at a local theatre. K.B. loved dancing of all varieties: Scottish country dancing, belly dancing, ballroom dancing, and, most recently, burlesque. She had started taking classes about a year and a half before she passed away.

She had had the chance to perform in several shows during her time with the troupe. For some reason I hadn’t managed to catch any of these (I know one she had to bow out of at the last minute because of a migraine). The only time I did see her dance in this style was at her wedding reception, when she and the rest of the women from the group showed off some of their moves. I joined them on the dance floor at one point and they urged me to “shake what my momma gave me.” It was so much fun. I asked K.B. about learning burlesque, too; in the fall we were trying to arrange private lessons for the two of us plus two more friends, but the timing didn’t work out. We were hoping to make another attempt to set up lessons for the four of us this winter.

So this was my first opportunity to see the women who danced with K.B. in costume doing their full routines. They were wonderful: funny, sexy in a coy, teasing way, and clearly enjoying themselves immensely. There were women ranging in age from their 20s to (probably) their early 60s and in body type from the very thin to the heavy-set. I envied them their self-confidence, their ability to revel in the beauty of their bodies. The audience could not have been more supportive: they hooted and cheered and at the end gave the performers a standing ovation.

I was so glad we were there so that I could see the full glory of a burlesque performance. I laughed so much; many of the women were talented comedians. But it was painful to be there, too, and not just because they paid tribute to K.B. in words, pictures, and dance. It was also because I felt that by watching the women of K.B.’s troupe perform in a way that K.B. loved, that I was learning about an aspect of her life which I had only partially understood previously. The joie de vivre, the sense of humour, the delight in one’s own womanliness: it was as if the spirit of K.B. was with us.

One would think that I would simply be able to enjoy that feeling, but no: it brought back the agony of missing her. Interspersed with the times when I was laughing with the dancers and admiring them were the moments when I felt that I was going to burst into tears again. I so wanted K.B. to stride on stage with that huge smile on her face, shaking what her momma gave her.

I kept it together until we got home and went to bed. And then I cried and cried.

Three Months

April 9th

Three months since she went to the hospital that day. It was in the depths of winter; now melting is finally starting to take place, the scent of damp earth is in the air, and the cats are warming themselves in the sunbeams streaming in through the French doors. The season in which she died is itself passing away.

Three months: should it not be time for the rawness of the pain to have eased? Some days it feels that way; other days, not. Yesterday and today have been days when it has been as difficult as ever. Last night I had a long conversation with one of my dear friends whom I have known since childhood; we had been in touch through social media since K.B. died, but had not actually spoken. 

Just “catching up” and explaining to her what the last three months have been like for me plunged me back into that aching despair. The tears kept flowing for an hour, to the point that it was almost difficult to talk. Even after the tears abated, my head pounded and my eyes ached from the physical effort of crying.

As emotionally and physically difficult as it was, though, talking to this friend was therapeutic. She has been through tragedy in her life, too, and she was able to share her experiences of grief in a way that made sense to me. She confirmed that all the first milestone dates are hell, so having a virtual breakdown on my birthday was perfectly normal. Her ability to empathize, and her tender concern, warmed my heart for an hour when my face was slick with tears.

The sadness led to another difficult night and a strange morning. It was announced today at my workplace that I was to receive a new position with more responsibility. Congratulations poured in. I was humbled to know that my colleagues respected me enough to be pleased at this development. I informed friends and family of the news, and they responded with even more kind words. But in the moments in between the kind e-mails and social media comments and office visits and phone calls, when there was time for quietness, thoughts of K.B. and what happened three months ago reasserted themselves.

By Any Measure

Recently I had lunch with a friend and the conversation turned to K.B.’s death. This friend had only met K.B. once, briefly, so what she knows of her comes from me. Because we have known each other quite a long time, she was able to detect that K.B.’s death is something with which I am still struggling. We ended up talking for quite a long time about what it means to lose a very close friend and what kind of an impact that has on one’s life.

I mentioned that K.B. was such a good person; she was remarkable for her ability to concentrate on the positive, no matter how dire the situation seemed. She was tremendously openhearted, embracing in friendship people with all sorts of interests and temperaments, of all ages and backgrounds. The "Instant Karma" story from her own blog showed how her first (and second, and third…) impulse was always towards kindness, no matter how unkind someone might be towards her. I feel so lucky to have been the beneficiary of that loving kindness more times than I can tell.

The friend to whom I was telling all this responded by saying that K.B. would have seen those qualities in me, that I had that same sort of goodness in me and that was likely a reason why K.B. and I bonded. I instantly, firmly had to correct her.

This is not false modesty. I know, through rigorous self-examination, that K.B. was a better person than me. I can only hope to aspire to be the cheerful, generous, thoughtful person she was, a person who always gave people the benefit of the doubt and wondered how their circumstances might motivate bad behaviour. At the time of the events described in the “Instant Karma” story, my take on the woman who insulted K.B. and swore at her was, “This woman is off her meds.” If I had been the recipient of her abuse, I doubt I would have been able to restrain myself from responding with a few choice words of my own. I certainly wouldn’t have gone back to offer her assistance a second time. I likely would have written her off.

By any measure, K.B. was good in a way that I am still working towards, and on many days feel very far from attaining. There were numerous occasions before she died when I said to B., “If only I had an ounce of the goodness K.B. has, I would be doing very well.”

I don’t mean to say that K.B. was a saint. No, there were people she disliked, and there were a couple of occasions when I thought her assessment of someone was not accurate. But did I ever see her be mean-spirited, or harsh, or sullen, or resentful? Never. As someone who struggles daily with tendencies towards being irritable, judgmental, and impatient, I am aware that I am lucky to have had her in my life to serve as a model for how to treat people, whoever they might be.