I have written this post in my head for weeks but there is no right way to do it.
He succumbed to one final seizure, the whole thing lasted less than 90 seconds. He knew when to arrive and when to leave.
At first it was simply outrageously unfair, and all I could think about was robbery. Of future, of present, even of past, because now all memories are colored by his quick departure, the disbelief at it being about 10 years too early, if anyone were to check with me first. But then there was a shift. And there was communication. And there has been some peace. For which I am grateful.
So he is both gone and he is here. He was both brave and a sacred clown. Looked at strictly from his point of view, he found the right house, the right people to help him do his work, and he moved leaps and bounds in a short amount of time. He wasn't in his body when he came to us. No one knew he was funny. He had no idea what it felt like to be welcomed back into the world after a seizure; it was obvious he had been punished. His gratitude was boundless, and so, soon, was ours.
Here's another thing, and the reason I decided to say anything at all: if you ever wonder if writing a quick email or sending a card helps the grieving, it does. Ann and I are so grateful for all the outpouring of support, the words both clever and simple, the steady checking in, the endless listening to both our outrage and our joy. Thank you so much for your kindness. It always does help.
Toksa ake, our kola Kola.