Saying Goodbye

Dear Rachel,

You came into the world so quietly, and so few people were there to greet you: me, your mom, the doctor, and a couple of nurses. That was about it. It was early in the morning, a little after 7:00, and your mom and I had spent the entire night in labor. (Of course, I got off easy.) But you finally arrived, the two of us fussed over you for a bit, then your mom went to sleep and I (foolishly) headed for school, thinking that I could manage to teach my classes after having been awake all night. (I didn’t last long.) It occurs to me now that not many people knew that you had arrived.

What a difference from when we said goodbye to you.

It’s been nine months now since your funeral and I can finally think about it without falling apart. It was a beautiful funeral, as these things go. You had so many friends! We all loved you, of course, but I hadn’t realized just how many people felt that way.

The funeral home was overflowing. The owners had to open up the lobby and several anterooms, and they piped the service out into the rest of the building so that those who couldn’t find a seat could still hear what went on.

Many people came to the podium and spoke lovingly of you, and there were many funny Rachel stories told; we laughed through our tears. (My favorite story was about how when you were pregnant with Shaylyn and your belly was too big to allow you to sunbathe at the beach—which you dearly loved doing—your friends dug a “belly hole” in the sand so that you could lie on your stomach in the sun.) Amy spoke long and lovingly about you; she was very brave, crying the entire time but still managing to tell those gathered how you and she had become stepsisters who were closer than many (most?) real sisters. Others stepped up and talked about how you were always there for them, how you refused to give up when life placed obstacles in your path, and how you encouraged them to do the same. There were young people in that crowd who would finish college largely because you showed them that it could be done.

Finally, your mom spoke. She was amazing. Whereas I couldn’t have said two words without falling apart, she stood up there and talked about you and about her love for you for several minutes. She cried, but she was composed and coherent, strong and beautiful. (She finished by inviting those in attendance back to the very house where, only three weeks earlier, many of us had celebrated your college graduation.)

There were VIPs in attendance. Many of your professors from both TCC and Old Dominion were there, as were the head of your department at ODU and the dean of the school. (In fact, I recently heard from one of your TCC professors. He was kind enough and thoughtful enough to drop me a line just to say that you were a wonderful person and to note what a great help you were when he took you and your fellow students to Russia.) The admiral in charge of the base at Norfolk sent an aide to represent him, since your mom works for the Navy. Most surprising of all, I thought, the president of ODU was there. That was a very nice gesture for one intelligent, dedicated, and accomplished woman to make to another.

But as beautiful as it was, nothing could alter the fact that we were there to say goodbye. That’s a terrible thing to have to say to someone whose life was really just beginning. It’s so hard to find anything positive in such a tragedy. I try, though, I really do. I think about some beautiful lyrics I’ve been hearing lately:

I probably wouldn't be this way,
I probably wouldn't hurt so bad;
I never pictured every minute without you in it,
Oh, you left so fast.
Sometimes I see you standing there;
Sometimes it's like I'm losing touch;
Sometimes I feel like I'm so lucky to have had the chance to
Love this much.

And I am thankful, truly thankful, to have had the chance to love you. But I would give anything and everything I have to see and hug and kiss you just one more time.

Love,

Dad