This morning I found out that a woman named Sarah Kalail had passed away from ALS. I didn’t know Sarah well. I don’t know how old she was or when she was diagnosed, but I do know she had grandchildren. Sarah and I were both on the President’s Advisory Board for The ALS Association. Her contributions to our calls came in the form of a computer-generated voice, which she used to talk about concerns for her family, the finances of those suffering from ALS, and the patient care piece of the disease. Sarah was outspoken, despite her inability to speak.

There are so many people who knew Sarah better than I did, and they will do the job of remembering her and sharing stories, so that the rest of us can learn more about her life. I just feel sad. Sad that someone who was once healthy and alive isn’t that way anymore.

I’ve been scrolling through Sarah’s Facebook page this morning, reading the posts of the people who miss her. I read some of Sarah’s own posts, including one about traveling—something I wrote about so recently. Sarah once loved to travel, to explore new cities with her husband and their sons. By 2013, she could no longer travel by plane, and even driving for long periods of time was difficult. But, she wrote “I find great solace in my memories.”

This week I volunteered in Scarlett’s class, bringing along an assistant to help me stuff the Tuesday note folders that the girls bring home each week. Before we got started, we were invited to join the morning meeting that kicks off each day for the kindergartners. We sat in a circle, and each person shared how they were feeling that morning. Kindergartners are so funny, and almost none of the girls were feeling only one way. One of them said, “I feel happy and sad and tired and silly.” She flung her little body forward in a dramatic fashion, and everyone laughed.

I understand that today. I woke up feeling happy, then I read the bad news about Sarah and felt sad. It led me to sit with the realities of ALS, and I felt afraid. So I thought about picking Scarlett up from school, and I felt grounded. Calmer. All of these emotions take turns flitting into the forefront of my mind, like the fasciculations that command attention in my arms and legs. Sometimes I ignore the twitches of emotions the same way I ignore the twitches in my body, but other times it’s just not possible and everything comes flooding in at once, so that I am like that five-year-old child, describing all of the ways her mind tugs at her. I might fling myself to the floor, if only I could.

Facebook is such a strange place to learn of someone’s death, because it illustrates better than anything how someone is here one day and gone the next. I scrolled through her feed, reading about Sarah through the words of her loved ones, and then suddenly there she was, made whole again by a comment she posted just four days ago.

Sarah Kalail cared about people. You didn’t have to know her well to know that. She’s being described as “sweet” “bright” “smiling” and “mischievous.” “Loving and brave.” “Beautiful inside and out.”

My wish for her family and friends is that they can find great solace in their memories.

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