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pjthompsonSo, last Sunday my supervisor at work passed away from pancreatic cancer. She was 59. We'd known for about a week that things were not good. I said to the roommate Sunday afternoon that I thought she'd slipped away, that when I got to work Monday we'd get the news. And that's what happened.
It was a tough week, many tears shed. They brought in a counselor. I tried to keep busy at work, cried when I needed to, took consolation in story and poetry. They aren't always a lot of consolation, but they're what I know. They help me process. Her family are the ones truly suffering, and no consolation can be enough for them at this point in time.
She was one of those people you liked being around, infinitely human, humorous, not at all concerned with pomp and circumstance, and she remained that way virtually to the end. She chose not to tell us about her condition until she couldn't avoid it. She had such energy and charm that none of us suspected. We bought the illusion she projected, that she wanted us to see. Although I wished I'd known, I understand that decision all too well. I don't know if I would have been brave enough to make it myself, but it was a valiant thing to do. I hope I have her grace when it comes to my end of days.
Literally days before she went out on that final sick leave and the announcement was made, the two of us had a long chat, laughing, joking, and talking about serious things, too. I keep going back over that conversation, looking for signs—but I see none. She was as she had always been, compassionate and human and someone I liked so much. We shared similar senses of humor, similar world views. I had always felt that if we'd met under different circumstances we might have become friends.
My own little piece of Maya, I guess: the illusion of the world. Or maybe not, impossible to say now, and best relinquished.
Goodbye, Sandy. Peace to you.
It was a tough week, many tears shed. They brought in a counselor. I tried to keep busy at work, cried when I needed to, took consolation in story and poetry. They aren't always a lot of consolation, but they're what I know. They help me process. Her family are the ones truly suffering, and no consolation can be enough for them at this point in time.
She was one of those people you liked being around, infinitely human, humorous, not at all concerned with pomp and circumstance, and she remained that way virtually to the end. She chose not to tell us about her condition until she couldn't avoid it. She had such energy and charm that none of us suspected. We bought the illusion she projected, that she wanted us to see. Although I wished I'd known, I understand that decision all too well. I don't know if I would have been brave enough to make it myself, but it was a valiant thing to do. I hope I have her grace when it comes to my end of days.
Literally days before she went out on that final sick leave and the announcement was made, the two of us had a long chat, laughing, joking, and talking about serious things, too. I keep going back over that conversation, looking for signs—but I see none. She was as she had always been, compassionate and human and someone I liked so much. We shared similar senses of humor, similar world views. I had always felt that if we'd met under different circumstances we might have become friends.
My own little piece of Maya, I guess: the illusion of the world. Or maybe not, impossible to say now, and best relinquished.
Goodbye, Sandy. Peace to you.