It's Hard to Say Goodbye

Especially when you have regrets.

Because you let your work become your life. And you come to realize that regardless of how "self important" you are, family and friends are what life is all about.

I lost my cousin Linda too soon. She was my last link to the past, a big loud 1/2 mile wide diaspora of Italian and Sicilian immigrants and family members who never called before stopping over. Homemade red wine, ravioli, hot peppers, home made bread and always a gathering on the stoop.

Linda was a retired Denver school teacher in declining health due to Parkinson's. She was the life of the party, a kind woman with a big heart who loved to laugh. But she had a mean temper when drinking, which became constant as her family abandoned her and she grew lonelier and overcome with grief.

I was the last person in her life who loved and cared about her.

I miss her.

And I have regrets.

Like I should have gone on vacations with her. "Come on, Laura," she texted. "I want to get out of here!" I didn't. I was too busy working.

I miss her.

And I have regrets.

I let my job, my "highly fulfilling Joan of Arc job" take up all my bandwidth, and I should have gone to Italy with her when she begged me to.

I have more regrets.

She would text me 5 or 6 times a day, texts with lots of emojis. "Whatcha doin?" "Hey chick. what's for dinner?" "Done working yet?" I was so important - so busy on back to back zoom calls - her texts went unanswered for hours.

And then I received THE CALL

.

The hospital called on Jan. 1st to say, "we're sorry, but Linda is very sick. We're going to have to operate. We're going to put her on the phone." My stomach sank.

"They tell me I'm not going to make it, Laura." she rasped. I reminded her how strong she was, and how much I loved her. It was our last conversation.

I was advised to get to Denver ASAP.

I arrived at 11:30 pm, and the Doctor met me at her room. "She's not doing well," he said. I saw her lying in ICU, bundled up, calm and at peace. The future was bleak.

I held her hand, and sure enough, her nails were painted brightly with holiday colors and sparkles. Her hair under the turban would be newly colored red, of course. This firecracker of a woman, this lively and fun light of my life, would not want to continue living with pain, loneliness and limitations.

I told the medical team, it's time to let her go.

I held tight to her hand as machines were detached, and medications switched out. The priest came, and commented on how pretty she was. She would like that.

I continued to hold her hand.

I talked of old times, of the angels waiting to greet her, and of the wonderful gifts she shared with this planet.

I continued to hold her hand. Something shifted, and I knew that she had left the room - and I really believe that I helped lift her up to heaven. Those two hours in the ICU were holy moments that profoundly changed my life.

For this, I have no regrets. I know I did the right thing.

Unconditional love is the greatest gift we can share with others. When others had turned away, I knew that I simply had to love her.

It's hard to say goodbye. And Linda's passing taught me a very important lesson: no more regrets.

I'm in my 2nd act now, and devoting far more attention to my 89 year old mom. I've also shrugged off the self-importance of "MY VERY FULFILLING CAREER" to embrace my humanity, to be more present with the people in my life.

And of course, I need to get to Italy. There's a little bit of Linda I want to leave there.