Dear _____,
I was just thinking about who to write, when your name popped into my head. You’d think it would make more sense to write to people who are still alive. They’d probably appreciate it, and in fact, I do owe several people notes and emails. But you are the one I want to write to. Or if I’m saying this grammatically, you’re the one to whom I want to write. It’s just that that sounds so formal, and I don’t remember you being extremely formal.
Next week is the third anniversary of your death. We didn’t actually know each other that well, but I think about you all the time, because your death was so sudden and shocking, and because you left behind three young girls. I’m sharing this letter with people who don’t know your story, so I have to explain that you didn’t have ALS. But of course you know that. You were in the hospital having surgery to fix a blood clot – – is that the right way to say it? – – when you had a heart attack. You were 42.
How has it been three years? I remember coming to your house when I was pregnant and meeting your daughters. The youngest one was only 10 months old at the time. I remember sitting in your backyard and eating salads topped with freshly grilled chicken and laughing, because you were a really easy laugher, a trait I deeply admire.
I remember that the day you died, Rob sent me a text (a text!), and I called him right away and I cried. I was standing in the kitchen, but it’s here that my memory fails me, because the kitchen I picture myself in couldn’t possibly be the one I was actually in. It’s true that I was standing, though. Me. Standing. You never knew me when I couldn’t stand. But when you died, I already knew that I was seriously ill, and headed down a similar path, if the doctors were to be believed.
I think you would have traded places with me, even with everything that we knew was coming. How could you not? It would have meant more time with your girls. And they are so beautiful. We still get Christmas cards from your family, four people now instead of five. They look happy. Another reason I think of you all the time is because if your daughters are safe and happy, then my daughter can be, too, no matter what happens to me.
I know Christmas cards and photos on Facebook don’t tell the whole story. But I hold on to their smiles. I see how they look like you. It’s not my place to do this, but sometimes I imagine how much they must miss you. I feel it as a pain in my stomach, sharp and aching. It makes me want to pick my daughter up from school three hours early, and just stare at her face. Memorize it, and somehow instill in her everything she needs to know. Wouldn’t you just have held them forever, if you could have?
But I shouldn’t project. I don’t know what you would have wanted, and I don’t know how your family feels. How they’ll feel next week. I only really know how I feel. I wish you’d had more time. I’m grateful for the time that I have, even when I feel that I’m not using it right. Even when I’m impatient with the people around me, and my words are harsher than they should be. I’m not healthy, I’m not mobile. I’m no longer independent. But I still have time.
Today I’m spending it thinking of you.
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Beautiful Tribute Sarah
This really hit home. Thank you so much for sharing. Don’t tell Beth but each morning, before I head to work, I crack her door open and memorize her face. It gets me through the day – especially when I can see her breathing well having already taken off her BiPap.
What a beautiful post! Thanks for remiding us to take the time to notice!
Beautiful, Sarah. <3
Your emotional honesty is stunning and we, your readers and cheerleaders continue to learn from you.
Thank you for teaching us, Sarah. At the age of 75, I don’t have much time myself. We are all just blips of light, yet our influence can extend outward through our children and through all of our interactions with thw world. Love you, Sarah.
Sarah, I’m so glad you’ve chosen to LIVE your life, and it’s beautiful. Actually words can’t describe the poignant beauty in everything you write. Thank you for sharing it with us.
My husband and I had just returned home from an ALS clinic day and this post awaited me. It was a difficult day and we returned home with some difficult decisions to make. Your letter pulled me back to what is really important. The timing could not have been more perfect. It was like someone was standing there shaking me to get on with it. To get on with life. We have time and we will make the most of it. Thank you so much.
Oh boy. I don’t know how you do it so consistently and phrase it so beautifully, but you dig up the truths that are hard to look at straight on.
It’s a tall order for anyone to feel like they’re making the best use of their (or their loved ones) time – all the time. Impossible, actually. But you do a bang-up job of being both profound and real. Have a good weekend
Sarah, you are truly an amazing person! Your beauty, intelligence, compassion, love, and strength are glaringly apparent in each of your writings. Thank you for giving us a glimpse into your personal life and sharing your heartfelt thoughts, experiences, and concerns. I feel blessed that I have been given the opportunity to know you through your writings, yet deprived that I am not personally able to meet you. Sarah, your life and poignant writings are worthy of a book! My prayers continue for increased awareness of and an immediate cure for ALS and that you and your family have continual and increasing hope! To each of you, God’s blessings!!!
That line, “I’m grateful for the time that I have, even when I feel that I’m not using it right” reverberates. Love this. Love that you are willing to be so vulnerable. Love that being vulnerable is the highest form of courage. Love that this blog is a “head fake” (re. The Last Lecture).
Very touching, my wife Alva and I shared some smiles with you that night at her house. You’re words are inspiring. Say hello to Rob for me.
- Chris Valle
Sarah dear,
Your post is so inspirational, focusing on the positive things in life. I am pretty anxious about my son’s future and often forget to enjoy the present moment. I will start doing it from today ! Thank you Sarah
Sarah, I relate so closely to all of this. I have an auto-immune disease where my muscles attack themselves and it also affects my lungs. I’ve had a few false alarms and winters are very tricky and I’ve had close calls there but I’m still here. The birth of my daughter triggered the disease and I know that anguish of thinking about my kids and their future. While some parents might lament them gaining independence, I am always stoked. I need in a sense to make myself redundant, even though I’m planning on hanging around. A close friend of mine has ALS, which is how I found your post. I don’t think I’ll ever stop wondering why such awful things happen to beautiful people. I have become a real believer in the importance of medical research. My disease has a number of treatment options etc and I’m so conscious of the need to find long term effective treatments for ALS and ultimately a cure so people don’t have the heartache. xx Rowena
I went on a date once with a guy who said I laughed easily, but he said it like it was an insult. We did not go out again. I am happy you think it is a quality to admire! And I never know what to do with sentences I want to end in prepositions. It doesn’t sound right to use the formal phrasing, but I always feel improper ending with a preposition. A dilemma. I like how you handled it here.