Take the Magic with the Tragic

Growing up, my father always told me that my problems were my problems. He wasn’t being flippant. He was trying to show me how to have compassion for others — and for myself. He did a good job of teaching me that there were always people worse off. But even though that is and will always be true, dad wanted me to know that my struggles mattered. 

I’ve thought about that a lot lately, as my little segment of the universe has been pelted with loss. I’ve lost my parents and my father-in-law in less than three years, and my dear friend, Jessica, passed away while I was at a family wedding in England two weeks ago.

Standing outside a restaurant in London, I listened over the phone while another dear friend told me she was gone. Instead of delivering funny texts and memes, my phone has morphed into a death and dying reporter over the last few years. You can only prepare so much for a loved one to leave. Even if you know it’s coming, you don’t really know, and the fact that I was half-way around the world didn’t help matters. 

I get so frustrated with our society’s obsession with prescribed perfection. People get so wrapped up in what they’re told will make them happy that they forget what creates happiness. Life is not supposed to be back-to-back Instagram photos. Life can be cruel and harsh. It can hit you in the gut and come back to hit you one more time — #reality. Some of the most beautiful moments in my life happened around tragedy, pain and heartbreak. I wouldn’t have gotten the goody out of those experiences if I would have glossed over them with a “fine” reply laced with a fake smile. I would have missed the point. 

As I stood on a cold cobblestone street holding my phone, young British bankers downed pints after their workday, enjoying a Tuesday night as if it were Mardi Gras. All I could do was cry. I was crying for Jessica, for her husband, her four kids and her parents. I was crying because I hate f*(@%$# cancer, and I was crying because sadness was the only emotion available. Instead of cramming it down my throat until we got back to where we were staying, I let it out. Maybe not everyone would do that. Maybe more people should.    

Through a series of travel miracles (five trains, a plane, a three-hour hotel nap, a shuttle, another plane and an Uber), I came home early for Jessica’s service. More importantly, I was able to sit with some of the people I love most in this world as we said farewell to one of our own. Turns out wearing eyeliner wasn’t the best idea, but I didn’t care. I let the tears roll down my face.

Sitting there holding my friends’ hands, I felt a tremendous sense of peace, a feeling hard to come by for tortured souls like me. I was grateful for Jessica’s life. I was grateful for our friendship and shared mom fails. I was grateful that our children are friends. And my Scottish heritage was grateful to hear more than twenty bag pipers play Amazing Grace. Yes, I was at a funeral for someone who was too young to suffer and die, yet I was surrounded by so much beauty. When life throws moments like that at you, you need to pay attention.  

As I soaked it all in, I thought about how Jessica lived every second of her life, even before her diagnosis. She took the trips. She threw the parties. She had the hard conversations. She got the tattoos. Hell, she was a scuba diver. One time before cutting sugar, she pulled me aside to tell me that she’d had chocolate Turtles and Sun Drop for dinner the night before. And the last time I saw her, she was the one telling me that everything was going to be okay. 

            The other day while driving to pick up The Tots, Jimmy Buffett’s He Went to Paris came on the radio. It’s one of my favorites because it’s honest and real. Years do slip away, and bad, horrendous things happen. It’s true for all of us, but the best line in the song is this, “Some of it’s magic, and some of it’s tragic, but I had a good life all the way.” 

            Jessica didn’t get the 86 years the guy in the song and my father-in-law did, but she took the tragic with the magic in the 42 years she did get and ran with it. That’s what it’s all about. You have to have both. Light can’t exist without darkness. And Jessica was such a light. 

            I miss my friend, my parents and my father-in-law like crazy. Moments of pure anger are followed by moments of joy as I parse through memories, making sure I learn all I’m supposed to learn. It’s not always pretty, and lately it’s been pretty ugly, but I’m taking the tragic with the magic. It’s hard, and it’s maddening, but I know I’ll arrive at a happy ending one day.