"Hey Mommy" she said, in an awkward tone when I answered the phone. "What's up daughter?!" I said in a cheerful voice, trying to shake the feeling that she was about to tell me something I didn't want to hear. "Have you talked to Jovah?" she asked, and when I stated I hadn't, she proceeded, "I just talked to them and, well, they just finished talking to Norjon and, well, Ms. Joy is dead." There was a long pause, as she allowed me to grasp the unthinkable thing she had just spoken, and an even longer pause when we got off the phone and I sat with what it meant. I spent the following week completely heartbroken, and experienced a lot of guilt-masked-as-anger as I awaited the family's public announcement and the opportunity to say goodbye to one of my dearest friends.
Joy and I had met 15 years ago, as newcomers to a church in Norfolk and bonded instantly. We spent the next year and a half together several times a week. We served in ministry together, coordinated social outings together and simply enjoyed life together. Our love for God, our children, diversity and inclusion, and helping others heal was at the forefront of most of our conversations. She and I stayed in touch when my family and I relocated to California and spent the next few years loving and supporting each other long distance.
After my divorce, I relocated back to the east coast and was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis a few months later. Joy, who had been managing Lupus since before we met, was a huge source of empathy and support, as she knew first hand the challenges and anxiety related to living with an autoimmune disease - the flare ups out of nowhere, and feeling like you've got to do as much as you can while in remission because you could never be too sure how long it would last. We both went on to accomplish great things and cheered each other on every step of the way. We often spoke about reconnecting with an in-person meeting, but could never seem to make it happen for one reason or another - life, health or preoccupation with accomplishing things.
A health flare up almost kept me from attending her funeral this weekend. My right arm became numb earlier this week, and weakness gradually affected both arms, making it difficult to hold things with weight or to grasp with my hands. The day before the funeral, when I was scheduled to leave, I woke up with weakness and pain in both arms, and unable to drive myself those two and a half hours. I stayed in bed that day, frustrated by my malfunctioning arms and feeling guilty, yet again, that I wasn't able to go and see my friend. Then I heard her say 'this is why we could never link up, because Lupus and MS are rude and don't care what we want to do. Just rude!!" And I laughed out loud as I repeated "Just rude!" That was Joy. She always had a way of making things feel ok even if they weren't really. She always left me calmer, happier and more optimistic than I was when I came to her.
The morning of Joy's funeral, a friend graciously agreed to drive me, and I arrived during the public viewing, a few minutes before service was scheduled to start. I walked through the church doors, and her face, in an enlarged poster, greeted me. "Hey girl" I smiled and said our usual greeting, as I felt the silence of it not being said back to me. I glanced to the right as I walked in that direction and saw her open casket at the front of the sanctuary. I paused, then sat down to absorb the weight of what I was beginning to feel. I wept.
"In just a few minutes, we'll be asking the family and extended family to exit the sanctuary and return for the funeral service" the announcer's voice pulled me out of my tear-soaked thoughts. I stood to take a look at my friend, to say one last goodbye. As I walked up to the casket, which was surrounded by dozens of pink roses, I looked down at her briefly, and felt a familiar feeling. The last time I remember attending a funeral like this was 27 years ago when my (biological) sister passed. I had bent down to give her one last hug, only to realize that a shell was in the casket, my sister was gone. This time, I had only to look down at the brown skinned beauty adorned in fuchsia to know that my friend was not there. She was already gone.
As I turned to walk away, I saw him. Dressed in a white suit that looked as if it were made just for him, and a head full of locks that had been tied back behind his head, he sat with his head down and hands clasped. I hadn't seen him since he was a little boy, but had kept up with every detail of his life through his mother. "Look at Norj" I heard her say, "Isn't he handsome?!" 'Oh my god yes' I thought as I looked down at him, pained now at the sight of my friend's whole heart existing without her. Before I could say anything, he glanced up. Our eyes met and I whispered a "Hey". His face lit up as he smiled at me, and for a brief second I saw that 12 year old face that used to smile up at me so many years ago. When he stood, he towered over me and when he hugged me, I felt the embrace of a grown man. "Who has a 25 year old?!" I remembered her saying in marvel just a few weeks ago.
We stood there for several, long moments holding each other tightly and intensely. Time stood still. Holding him was like holding the heart of my friend in my arms, and I wept. He wept. I kissed him and whispered a message of love and support in his ear, before ushering us both back into reality and the present, and allowing him to prepare for the service that was ahead.
I then went to greet her husband, whom I had never met before but felt like I knew him because she talked so much about him. "Girl, let me tell you about this man I just left" she beamed during a phone call after their first date. I smiled at the thought as I walked up to him preparing to introduce myself. Before I could, he let out "Carlita!!!" and held out his arms to me. I leaned in to him and we embraced as if we had always known each other. We held each other for a long time and he whispered in my ear how much Joy loved me and was so proud of all I had accomplished despite adversity. I wept.
The funeral was filled with both lament, love and laughter and I think we all left with "joy bells ringing in our souls." I was reminded of and inspired by so many things. To honor my friend, I've decided to be intentional about sharing my grief process as a means of supporting her loved ones through theirs. During the month of December, which houses her birthday, I plan to release a new blog series called Joy From My World, a series dedicated to exploring grief and loss, a universal yet deeply personal experience. Covering topics such as understanding the stages of grief, coping strategies, supporting loved ones, and finding hope after loss, my goal is to create a resource that resonates with those experiencing the loss of Joy from their world. By sharing personal stories, professional expertise, thoughtful insights, and practical guidance, I hope to foster a sense of connection and healing in the face of a shared and defining moment in our lives.
More to come . . . . .
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About the Author
Carlita L. Coley is a North Carolina native with Virginia roots. A Licensed Professional Counselor by day and a writer during all other times, she enjoys reflecting on and writing about the human experience in hopes of educating, empowering and inspiring. Read more about her journey in her memoir, Eve's Exodus.
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