Saying Goodbye Can Be A Gift

Yesterday, I was driving to Viet Book Fest. As a member of the Vietnamese American Arts and Letters Association, I was blessed with the opportunity to host a group of Vietnamese authors and gather in community to celebrate the voices of our heritage. On the hour long drive, I wanted call my parents. I usually do so on these kinds of commutes given the uninterrupted time. But I could not because they were at the funeral of my sister’s father-in-law. I thought of playing music or calling someone from a list of friends just to say hello and catch up. But to honor the loss of someone in our family, I decided to drive quietly. I meditated to the imagery of this very kind man who graced our family with his cheery smile every time we saw him. Then I received a text.

I learned that a long time colleague and friend passed away. His name is Larry Burns. He was an EOPS counselor who was more than that. He was a gentle, and at times stern, father figure and spirited mentor to a multitude of students. He had been ill for quite some time. When his family knew the end was near, they invited anyone who wanted to say goodbye to come through. I got to do that last weekend.

On the morning of the visit, two colleagues, who I consider sisters, were going with me. Ashley, Bea, and I would get the chance to say farewell. What do we bring? Food? Refreshments? Flowers? Perhaps just our presence would be enough. But for some aching reason, it just didn’t feel like it would be. We decided pastries, flowers, and a card to write our final sentiments. I was thinking that each of us could fill the blank space with whatever our hearts wanted to share. I sat with the card and wondered what to pen. Time ticked on, and it remained blank, because I didn’t know what to express in a situation like this. For the truth was, I have never had an opportunity like this before. Fortunate that very few loved ones in my life have departed. Unfortunate that, for those who have, I never got to say goodbye in person. As you all may know, Vu’s departure was with warning, but I never got to hold him, kiss him and whisper departing words of adoration to say goodbye.

Fifteen minutes before our meeting time at Larry’s home, an urgency struck my heart. It is times like this, when the emergency bell rings in my soul, that words come to me. I used one side of the card in case Ashley and Bea wanted to write their own. The card’s front design was a shimmery turquoise hummingbird with rose gold wings. Larry was about to take flight to the other side, and I wanted him to have some words of affirmation. I penned a poem in mere minutes.

His home was a short drive from mine. I never knew he lived so close. I had always interacted with him on campus and at school events. Each interaction was uplifting and fun. Larry often wore a Kangol beret. I loved how he carried it with his own debonair style and glowing smile. That’s how I’ll always envision him.

His family welcomed us in. Through the foyer and into the living room, I entered and saw that he was resting on a bed suited for home hospice. I approached and wondered what his mental condition would be. Would he have the energy to open his eyes? If so, would they recognize mine when our eyes collide? “Larry, you have visitors!” his wife chirped.

His arms were rested across his stomach. His hands clasped together. Our eyes met. “Ahh, hello Thao,” he said with a joyful smile. “Hi, Larry,” was all I could muster before my voice phased out to a quiver. I leaned over, hugged his warm body, put my face into his neck, and cried.

The gift of goodbye is a precious one. Cherished, treasured, and one that will stay in your memory always.

Yes, he looked frail and gaunt and fatigued. It’s the reality of the body at the end stage of terminal illness. But his spirit flowed, and his eyes shed tears with us. He wiped them away with his soft hands. I remember Vu wiping tears from his eyes on our last two FaceTime calls. I recall a story from a friend who got to say goodbye to her friend. He was in his last days of pancreatic cancer, the same cancer that took Vu’s life. She had not seen her friend in over a year due to Covid. She said it was a shock to her system to see him on his death bed. Unrecognizable. So much so that it was horrifying. She said perhaps it would have been better to not have seen him like this so that she can remember him when he was healthy. She can’t shake the harsh memory of her friend looking so frail and gaunt and fatigued.

After hearing her confession, I wondered if it was a gift that I didn’t get to see Vu in person to say goodbye. That I would carry only the memories of touching and holding his healthy body, and kissing his full, warm lips. Larry’s cheek was warm when I kissed it, but it was sharpened by the depletion of flesh.

I didn’t get to say goodbye to my sister’s father-in-law. But I was always respectful when I saw him. I hugged him and smiled and patted his back as I listened to his thick, undecipherable accent from Central Vietnam, nodding and pretending to understand what he was saying. For the phrases I did understand, I would always engage in conversation. I hope that was enough.

Saying goodbye can be a precious gift. Doing so in person is even better, or maybe not, depending on how we experience and process it. But whether or not we get to say goodbye, perhaps what counts is that we approach each of the interactions we have with people who come and go in our lives with kindness, joy and understanding. Shine with your heart in each and every engagement, for eventually, we will all have to say goodbye, whether in proximity or from a distance or simply in our hearts.

Rest in Power, Larry. Rest in Peace, Bác Trai. And to my beloved Vu, I’m always thinking of you and missing you.