“You’ve got to suffer to learn.”
I didn’t like that phrase, but it was something my twelfth grade English teacher — Mama Squires to us — repeated often.
I had a special relationship with Mama Squires. She had a son who would have been only a few years older than I who had died of cancer a few years before I met her. I had lost my mother to cancer a few years earlier as well.
Many were the days that I would make my way to Mama Squires’ classroom after school to sit and talk with her.
I don’t have any specific memories of topics we discussed. I do remember how cathartic it was for both of us to just sit and talk. Our grief was different yet somehow shared.
We developed such a strong bond that when my wife and I married we moved into Mama Squires’ basement where we lived for almost a year. Mama Squires was divorced and had one surviving child who lived out of state who didn’t come around much.
In mid-2002, we moved to an apartment closer to the school my wife and I were both attending. We had to work hard to convince Mama Squires to let us move into her basement and she was heartbroken when we decided to move.
Mama Squires had long struggled with various health problems and not long after we moved, she was diagnosed with Stage 4 cervical cancer. Regularly — though not as often as I would have liked — I would go grocery shopping for her, clean her house, or just sit with her and talk.
As Fall of 2005 faded into Winter, I think she sensed that death was close. She was afraid of dying on her birthday — December 8th.
On December 7, 2005, Mama Squires quietly passed away. Her daughter, three granddaughters, and I were the only ones in the room.
Her funeral was held three days later on December 10th which happened to be the day I turned 27.
As we grow older, the number of people we know who have gone before us increases. Mama Squires was one day shy of 56 years old when she passed away yet she was preceded in death by her parents, her brothers, and her son.
In a way, the deep sense of loss we feel when someone dies is also what keeps their memories alive in us; what prevents them from being forgotten. While new chapters won’t be written in their story, the survival of their story is guaranteed as it is written and re-written in the hearts and minds of those who come after.
The true stories of great people can evoke a desire to follow in their footsteps, but it’s most often the shared experience with those we love that shapes who we are. I attribute much of who I am today to my mother — who died when I was only fourteen — and to Mama Squires — who has been gone for almost twenty years. All the loved ones I’ve lost over the years have had a hand in molding me.
When reflecting on the people we’ve loved and lost, it’s easy to focus on the memories that keep their influence alive in us. But there’s a paradox in our nature: we often wait until someone has died before fully appreciating the profound impact they’ve had on us. Why do we hold back from telling the people we love just how much they mean to us, and why, while they’re still here? Is it because expressing that kind of specific gratitude has the potential to elicit powerful emotions — emotions that remind us how vulnerable and interconnected we really are?
Why wait?
There’s no point in holding back our love or our words of appreciation. It’s a bit cliché, but the greatest gift we can give those who are still with us is to share how they’ve shaped our lives while we have the chance.
There are countless daily opportunities to connect in meaningful ways. Even when the moments are brief, we can say what matters most. We can let the people we love and appreciate know that their story is still being written in our hearts.
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