When I was reading the seventh Harry Potter book, there was a quote from William Penn’s More Fruits of Solitude in the front of the book before you begin the actual book. The quote struck me as a child as absurd: “Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still. For they must needs be present, that love and live in that which is omnipresent. In this divine glass, they see face to face; and their converse is free, as well as pure. This is the comfort of friends, that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the best sense, ever present, because immortal.” In my childish mind, when someone died, they went beyond where you could reach them forever, and that was something to be feared. I spent my childhood talking to departed grandpas. The first pets we had that died were hermit crabs. We would use pieces of marble we’d gotten on a field trip to a marble quarry as gravemarkers and bury them in the backyard. Eventually, we gave away the hermit crabs to another homeschool family and got a pet dog. I lived in fear of our family dog dying from the moment we got her. To be fair, my fear of death was an outgrowth of the anxiety disorder that is part of my autism. What I didn’t understand as a nine-year-old when we welcomed our family dog into our home is that grief, death, loss, and love are parts of the rhythm of life. I hadn’t experienced enough loss to learn how to grieve, and when Molly, our family dog, did pass away, learning to let go was the last gift she gave me.
Since she passed, I’ve lost friends and relatives. Each loss doesn’t hurt less; it just becomes less debilitating with time. The comparison of learning to live with an amputation is accurate. The sadness is often most overwhelming at night, right before I fall asleep. I will still talk to my grandma and those whom I’ve lost, but it doesn’t leave me lying in bed unable to get up. I can only think to compare Molly’s death and that grieving process to encapsulitis that happens with “frozen shoulder”. A capsule of scar tissue forms around the injured/irritated muscle because it hurts to move, and then it’s even more painful to break up that scar tissue, which is important for restoring functional movement. Losing Molly was so painful that I avoided thinking about her, looking at her photo, etc. This only prolonged the grieving process so that when I finally dealt with it in therapy, it was much more painful than if I had dealt with it at the time it occurred. It’s also possible I had delayed the grief because I wasn’t ready at the time.
With the loss of relatives and friends that have occurred more recently, I have been careful to set aside time to journal, go for walks, and make sure I’m processing my grief. What I always carry with me, even in the moments of acute grief, is the love I still have for who I have lost and my desire to honor what was important to them. I now have the cats of two of my departed grandparents, who are playful, engaging, and wonderful reminders of the love I had from my family members. My friend who passed away recently left behind several lovely friends whom we now visit on a regular basis. It’s been a pleasure to hear the life stories of these ladies, whom I didn’t visit as frequently before her passing.
Even though the people I have loved have passed away, others whom I love remain, and I look forward to meeting others whom I will grow to love in the future. I also have faith that I will see my loved ones again. I feel especially close to my departed grandparents when I visit my friends who reside in the assisted living facility near where I live. Sometimes it feels like my Grandma might turn the corner with her walker, a gait belt around her waist, and a caregiver by her side. My friends who live there are from the same generation and share stories similar to what I heard from her. While there are similarities, I enjoy hearing the differences and their own life stories. One of my friends was a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse. I had only heard mention of one-room schoolhouses when I read Little House on the Prairie as a child. Hearing from someone who lived through that period and worked in one is fascinating. They are all from different parts of the country and even the world; one lady is originally from Italy. It’s a quiet environment, with no rush unless it’s close to mealtime or a game is scheduled with friends. It can feel like stepping into another world that is a reprieve from the busy world I live in. My first visit a few years ago was associated with anxiety, loss, and fear of going to a senior living facility. Having visited friends at this particular community for several years, it now feels like almost a second home, and I can feel myself relaxing as I walk up to the door. I never imagined I would associate relaxation and community with a senior living community.
When I think about Easter, I think about renewal, love, celebration, and how my relationship with grief has changed over the years. Even as the days go by and the amount of time since I saw my grandma, friend, grandfather, and Molly increases, I feel closer to them now than when they first passed. The love I felt for them and still feel for them is as strong as ever. I find ways to honor them through loving their pets, making new friends, and living a life filled with gratitude and joy. I’ve heard it said that grief is love with no place to go. I believe that, and something that has been instrumental in my healing from loss has been finding outlets for that love and understanding that just because I’m making a new friend, it doesn’t mean the love I have for a departed loved one is less. When I let that love flow freely, and I’m open to new connections and to the possibility of loss, I feel closer to everyone.
This Easter, I’m grateful that God has redeemed and healed my ability to spend time with seniors and to genuinely enjoy that time. I celebrate the new friends I have made, will continue to make, and my ability to form loving relationships. When I think about Mary and her grief at Jesus dying, I can relate to having been in the deep throes of grief myself. The story of Easter gives me hope for seeing my loved ones again and points me to a faith that has sustained me for years. Grief and love can coexist. Life and death are different sides of the same coin.
Living on the Spectrum 
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