The Anniversary of Sybil’s Death

The twenty-third of March was the first anniversary of my niece’s death. She was pregnant with her first child, had a stroke and went into a coma because of complications from preeclampsia. Her son, Jack, was delivered by C-section on March seventeenth and Sybil never recovered. It amazes me how the anniversary of a person’s death brings up so much emotion and grief. I knew all year that I was sad and grieving but I was not aware of how much until the first year rolled around.

When I am feeling grief I am not just experiencing the loss of Sybil. I am dropped into the very pit of despair. It is as though I am touching the reservoir of loss itself. I experience long-held fear and doubt and grief that have always been there. I want to push the feelings away because they are so unpleasant. But grief holds me until I begin to soften around it, accept it, and get in touch with things about myself I probably would not have had access to without it.

The tendency I feel with grief is to close in on myself. The only relief seems to be found in the silence of solitude. And yet, what grief demands of me is to open. It does everything in its power to get me to open my heart. Loss puts me right smack in touch with what is important in my life. Even though closing in is an attempt to protect—it doesn’t work for long. My rational mind tries to understand what really happened even though it cannot truly know the meaning of life and death. But my heart, if I can keep it open, seems to find its own intuitive way.

Grief comes from trying to protect anything from being what it is…from trying to stop change. Each one of us experiences our humanness to the degree we can open to our joy and sorrow. It is from this humanness that we come to watch the constant change and changefulness of the mind. We see the whole world reflected there and we notice that everything ends. Every thought ends. Every feeling ends. Each taste, each moment of hearing, each seeing ends. It has never been otherwise. Every experience, every relationship ends. Moment to moment, change unfolds.

Our experience of life is the experience of change. Everything that has a beginning has an end. Nothing stays the same. In this flow of change, there is no real or solid place on which a lasting foothold can be taken. Every moment is precious. Every moment is just as it is and nothing needs to be otherwise.

When we recognize that all we have is this moment, then life becomes important and we open to it just as it is. Our loved ones, our children, our friends become so precious. Life takes on new meaning. Each moment becomes a whole lifetime, a universe unto itself. Our priorities change, our heart opens, our mind begins to clear of the fog of old holdings and pretending. What truly matters becomes very apparent. We are no longer “a victim of life.” Every experience, even the loss of our dearest ones, becomes another opportunity for awakening.

I am deeply saddened by Sybil’s death. The gift is in being reminded that each moment is important. The pain of opening the heart to loss is countered by opening to loving everyone and everything in my life to its fullest. The longing for what was becomes simply a part of this moment and there is nothing more than that. I miss Sybil and am allowing myself to grieve and heal. That is part of the great mystery of life that her death has brought into my awareness. I offer her my blessings for bringing me to these realizations.

Losing A Loved One

My niece, Sybil, died six days after delivering a baby boy (Jack Chandler McFall). She had had a normal pregnancy, but on March 17th she woke up ill. The hospital diagnosed her with preeclampsia and by early afternoon her blood pressure had spiked too high and she suffered a stroke. They performed an emergency cesarean and delivered Jack. Sybil went into a coma and never came out.

Life is fragile and fleeting. You never expect a young healthy person to die. Pregnancy is still life-threatening, in spite of modern medical advancements. Sybil's death has thrown my family into shock and turmoil. Each is dealing with grief in their own way. My brother, losing his only daughter, is philosophizing in his grief and feels totally helpless. His son has initiated a project of videotaping family and friends memories to present to Jack when he is old enough. My sister feels beyond exhaustion in her grief. My son and nephew, having young children by c sections recently, cry easily over Jack being raised without a mother. My feelings seem buried deep inside. We are all heart broken and raw.

Sybil's death has illuminated and forced us to examine our beliefs. We have come face to face with questions about the meaning of life and death. They are both unexplained mysteries of the soul and have no clear answers.

Sybil was a lovely young woman. Her quick with and dry humor amazed us and never failed to bring a quick smile. I have fond memories of Sybil since she was born. She was an incredibly creative and gifted artist who produced many imaginative projects. She was endlessly loving and was not afraid to express it in many ways.

One early memory of her that stands out in my mind happened when my mother died in 1977. Sybil was 3. We had just left the cemetery in a limousine on a snowy blistery February day. Sybil turned around and said, "We can't leave Grandma here--she'll get cold." I hope her spirit is with my mother now.

My most recent memory of Sybil was when my entire family got together at Thanksgiving. Three of the four cousins were expecting babies in the Spring. After dinner we had a shower for the three babies. It was a fun and connecting time for all of us and one that I will always treasure. Sybil was so excited to be becoming a mom and having a little boy. None of us can imagine what it will be like for Jack to grow up without a Mother. Fortunately he has a marvelous Dad who has our complete support in raising him.

Sybil's place in our small family will be greatly missed. We all loved her dearly and pray for her journey into the light.