​​When Dad and Mom moved to Tucson, I vowed to visit every month. Little did I know how short-lived this promise would be: on my fourth visit, Dad died, and on this, my sixth, Mom is following. 
 
So while the fourth and sixth visits (the “deathbed vigils”) will forever be anchored in my heart, it is the unsuspecting fifth visit that stands out as equally special. I plan it around the visit of my favorite cousin on Dad’s side, Gary, and his wife Jill.  They are coming out to Tucson to visit Jill’s aging parents. Gary reminds me of Dad: incredibly kind, very funny, super smart, uber successful, and, like Dad, doesn’t talk a lot, but when he says something, you listen.
 
I need Gary and Jill’s visit as something to look forward to: a rose among thorns, a port in this storm of grief. Observing Mom’s dramatic decline has been hard.
 
In October, the Head Caregiver in the Memory Ward returns from a two-week vacation and tells me she is shocked to see how fast Mom has spiraled, both mentally and physically in the month since Dad’s death. Mom has trouble sitting upright, and will often talk about Dad as if he is living, or even more unsettling, talk to Dad, as if he is in the room. After 56 years of marriage, Mom does not want to live without him.
 
So lunch with Gary and Jill is a spark of joy, a gift. With them living on Beacon Hill in Boston and me in the Northeast sector of Albuquerque, what are the odds that we should be meeting in Tucson? It feels like Dad should be with us, and just a few weeks earlier he would have been. This is an empty feeling I realize that will unexpectedly hit me for the rest of my life, one that I don’t think I’ll ever get over. Dad adored Gary, and Gary mentions twice how Dad was his favorite uncle. At the end of the lunch, I am oddly excited about Dad’s funeral mass in Hingham next summer, knowing that Gary and his brother Paul have committed to being there. I sense the way to navigate this lifelong void will be through strengthening connections, like those with Gary and Jill. I am grateful for this revelation: this beacon of light.
 
The next day, I put a sunhat on Mom and take her outside. There is a tree-filled courtyard decorated with an archway of purple, orange and black balloons for Halloween. A man quietly strums his guitar in the corner. As the sun heats up, balloons start to pop. Then aids wheel out other residents. It is a concert, for which we unexpectedly have great seats. The weather is finally Arizona perfect, this being October 29th.  A slight breeze caresses us, as the two-man band plays old hits. 
 
“Do you take requests?” I venture.
“If I can,” he responds. 
“How about King of the Road?” 
 
It’s an old tune Mom and her brother Danny used to sing all the time when we were growing up, one of their favorites. Danny would play the guitar and he and Mom would harmonize. The man plays the tune and Mom, who cannot often remember words when speaking, sings along, word perfect. We sing together, an ode to carefree days, balloons popping in the sun, reminding us that nothing lasts forever. It is our last happy memory together.
 
Mom and I had planned to join Pauline’s family on the Saturday after Thanksgiving for a turkey dinner, but the day after Thanksgiving, hospice puts Mom in the “active dying” category. I arrive Friday afternoon to find her in bed, eyes closed, mouth open.  I never see her open her eyes or hear her speak again.
 
Over the next few days, Pauline and I call loved ones to have them say their goodbyes. Although Mom cannot speak and her eyes stay shut, when she hears a familiar voice, sometimes her mouth moves as if she is talking to them, sometimes her face twitches in recognition. Her body confirms that hearing really is the last thing to go. We share with her loved ones many tears, a few laughs: a lifetime of love in these last messages.
 
We say our goodbyes, sing, pray, and cry. Mom is leaving us.
 
By Saturday night, Mom’s breathing is erratic and I agonize over whether to go back to the hotel. I don’t want her to die alone, but after a long and vigilant day, Pauline and I are both exhausted. I stay until 11, Pauline keeps a vigil with her until 2AM. Maybe Mom wants to die alone, not wanting to leave her kids with us there?
 
By 5:30 am on Sunday, I am at her side.
 
At noon, she stops breathing. Then takes a breath. I call Pauline and she rushes over. We notify Jake and he joins us on Facetime. We sob, reminisce, laugh hard. Jake buys a ticket for Tuesday, to come and see her body for the last time. At 3PM, an aide puts a monitor on her finger. Mom is too cold to register a pulse or oxygen level. She stops breathing, and the aide is prepared to call it. It appears that this is it. Try as I might, I don’t feel the presence of Dad, or her parents, or any who have gone before her. Things felt so different when Dad died.
 
Then, Mom takes another breath.
This continues until, exhausted, we leave her at 11pm.
 
At 2:30 am on Monday, I awaken in my hotel, knowing it is the time they should be giving her morphine. I don’t want a call telling us she is dead, so I go over to see her. To my surprise, she is still breathing. I talk to her, do yoga, dance, sing, sit quietly.  
 
A few hours later, my cousin Jill calls. I hadn’t called Jill because I had been calling Mom’s side of the family, but I am so happy she called. Knowing we had discussed Mom’s decline the month before, I launch into a report of how hospice tells us Mom is breathing only six times a minute at this point, still without a pulse or oxygen reading. She could go momentarily.
 
Jill listens quietly and responds, “I’m sorry to give you more bad news.”
I freeze.  
“Gary died yesterday.”
 
What??!?! No. No. No. No. 
Even on the heels of Dad’s death, I’ve been bracing myself for Mom to go: “circle of life”, “she had a good run”, “they are together” sort of thing. 
 
But Gary??? He was 65.
 
I am reeling: Mom’s life has drained out of her like a leaky bucket from the beach; Gary’s unexpected death is a lightning bolt that hits me so hard I cannot breathe. I am a candle facing a tsunami of grief. This will take me under; wipe me out. When I emerge, whenever and however that is, I know I will be changed. So much has changed.
 
So much loss in this pandemic, even without all the many deaths. Last September, when we moved from Los Angeles because we could no longer afford to live there, we left behind beloved friends and traditions, the ocean, my lifelong dream to write for television. 
 
My writing career has been the Red Sox of the 20th century: so close to getting produced so many times, but the timing was off, my manager retired to have kids, the studio that greenlit the show I was on was bought out, the boutique agency that repped me was acquired and my agent jumped ship, the “right” person retired, my writing was optioned but never made, my second agent left the industry….I was unlucky.
 
Upon arriving in New Mexico, I thought of writing a book, except I had kids underfoot at all times, trying to attend virtual school. But really, underneath all the busyness, I realize I am beaten and bruised. I lack the confidence to tackle a book. 
 
So what now? I heard, “Baby steps – what baby step can I take?” A blog. With what focus? Wonder, the dust that renders life magical. I google quotes about wonder, and one by E.B. White resonates with me. I will use that as my sign-off to remind myself to stay open to the wonder in life.
 
I write a few entries, and send the blog out to everyone on my email list, asking them to subscribe.
 
Very few do. 
I get it: we are saturated by news and media and communication.  Who has the time?
 
My cousin Gary. Gary, one of Boston’s top financial analysts in biotech, makes the time. Gary, intentional about everything, not only subscribes, but emails me: “White’s one of my favorites. Have you read his essays? You are doing similar things here.” 
 
Gary is the only one to comment on E.B. White.  No, I tell him, I didn’t know E.B. White wrote essays. I make a mental note to track them down. But I must prep for book groups, and help get kids back online, and do laundry, dishes, dinners, parent-teacher conferences, and further blog posts. Then three weeks later, a book arrives in the mail: “The Essays of E.B. White”.  Gary has enclosed a note (customarily short): “Hope you enjoy this. He is such a good writer. You will appreciate it as another good writer.”
 
To be called “a good writer” in the same sentence as E.B. White is simultaneously one of the greatest compliments and challenges I have ever received. I keep the book by my bedside and study it: how does E.B. White describe things? “Good” writing now has a specific lens. Gary continues to respond to every blog I post: short but, thanks to our shared lens, incisive comments. “Another ‘good’ one” or “You really captured the moment in time so nicely.”
 
The moment in time…Through tears that won’t stop, I now study Mom, waxy and grey, but still somehow breathing. Hospice tells me that that there is no biological reason for her to be alive at this point, that she must be hanging on for someone. Who does she need to hear from? We have contacted all of her closest family and friends. We have reminded her that Dad is waiting for her, (and even mention that he never liked to be kept waiting long.) We are exhausted. Yet she lingers on. 
 
Then it comes to me: “Jake. She wants Jake here to hug her goodbye. Facetime wasn’t enough.” Jake is still 24 hours away from being here, and it’s unlikely, not to mention inexplicable, that she would still be alive.  
 
But I feel certain that she is waiting for her boy to hug her one last time.
 
Against all odds,  she perseveres and perseveres.
 
And finally, Jake arrives. And when he is by her side, he hugs her with all his heart.
 
Later that night, her two daughters and son recite the prayers she taught them 50 years ago, when they were babies and she was young and vibrant. For good measure, her kids pause and repeat, “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take”.
 
She does die before she wakes, not too long after her son’s arrival.
 
But she does not die alone. 
 
The text comes in at 4:47 that she slipped away at 4:44. The aids had come in, and finding her still breathing at 4:30, gave her morphine. They start to change her when her arm goes limp, and they know that her spirit has gone.
 
The next day, as we prepare to see her body for the last time, my sister’s dog collapses and must be put to sleep. So much loss. So much heartache.
 
Later that day, too exhausted to drive back to New Mexico, I sit in the hotel room and try to write mom’s obituary. Nothing comes. How to sum up your mother’s life?
 
I do my best, but once written, I sit on her obit for days. I have called those who were most in touch with Mom. I can bring myself to share her death; why can’t I send out her obituary?
 
Then it dawns on me: I don’t want to send out Mom’s obituary on my blog, because the response I will most be looking for will never come. No matter how many blogs I send out, I will never again hear from Gary. I am learning to live with this paradox: it is the empty page, the email that never comes, that can be louder than any replies. This silence is what his amazing Jill and four incredible children must learn to live with, this silence so deafening, so heartbreaking .
 
The day after Mom died, a friend in LA surprises me with a call, telling me she felt moved to send money to help us through this valley. I cannot bring myself yet to mention Gary. I think I am still in shock. I had already sent in my regrets for his funeral, unable to afford the flight. But miraculously, without knowing it, she sends enough money so that I can fly to Boston for Gary's funeral. This - this is love in action, a gift I will never forget. I hope to one day pay it forward.
 
So it is that on a misty overcast day on Beacon Hill, a kilted bagpiper plays on the steps of St. Joseph’s Church. He is summoning together Gary’s clan, the clan of my father. We heed the call. We, who descended from Paisley Scotland in the 17th century to settle in Boston, come from Arizona, New Mexico, Pennsylvania, New York, Maine, New Hampshire. We have come to pay our respects to one of the finest members of our clan, the one we all adored, the one who left us with many golden memories, but left us far too soon.
 
As if in mourning, Beacon Hill’s lampposts look solemn and dapper in their red bows and fir branches. Walking back through Boston Commons in the gathering gloom after the reception, the frog pond is appropriately frozen into a skating rink. The sorrow of winter has lodged in my bones as well.
 
But it is up, it is skyward, it is the tree branches, ablaze in holiday lights, that remind me that most are merry and hopeful this time of year. My husband and three children decorated our house while I was at Mom’s deathbed. My five-year old is daily on his best behavior for the Guy in Red. My nine-year old wants to drive around and look at lights every night. My eleven-year-old is learning all kinds of Christmas tunes in the hopes of caroling around the neighborhood. Christmas was Mom’s favorite time of year, which yes, makes it harder, but also more imperative to rise. I must be true to the sorrow I am living, but mindful that neither Mom, nor Dad, nor Gary would want us mourners to be moping and glum. 
 
Life, after all, is the stories we tell ourselves. What stories should I carry home to my children?
 
I will tell them the story about the mother whose heart was so full of love, that she defied scientific odds. That without a readable oxygen level or pulse, her heart beat on in her cold and waxy frame, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day – until all of her children were gathered by her side. All kissed her, hugged her, and thanked her in person. And then she flew away.
 
I will tell them the story about the cousin whose intelligence was exceeded only by his kindness, who through his quiet example taught what it means to really show up for someone. That through his consistency and insight, he transformed another’s confidence, and thus her life, before his gentle spirit unexpectedly slipped away.

I will tell them about the friend who, in doing what she could to help, gave more comfort and healing than she knew was needed.
 
I will tell them that we have no control over what happens; we only control how much we choose to love. That while love is scary and painful, just like life, that to love small and play it safe is to not really live at all. I will tell them that while it may not seem like it to them now, it turns out that life IS short, so they must summon all their courage to create the joy, and be open to the wonder. Because despite all the tremendous tremendous loss, there is great wonder and love and beauty still, if only we open ourselves up to it.

​Donna Jeanne Coffey Young passed away peacefully early on December 1st in Tucson, Arizona shortly after her three kids joined her for the nightly prayers she had taught them 50 years ago. 
 
Born in Cambridge, MA to Daniel J. and A. Stephanie Coffey, as the middle child of three, Donna liked to be in the middle of things. She would often start conversations in the middle of the story, loved to be in the middle of friends, the center of a party, in the midst of whatever was going on. Warm and loving, Donna created too many lifelong friendships to safely name in this obit (she would be upset if we left someone out, which we would inevitably do because we couldn’t keep up). She lived for her friends and family.
 
Donna was raised in Jamaica Plain and Arlington, and attended Matignon High School. Though she majored in Business Administration at Regis College, she was best known for her socializing and her faith. Early on, she forged a hotline to her Guardian Angel, and was on a first-name basis with many saints. Chances are, if you are reading this obit, you were in her prayers at some point, perhaps perpetually (ahem, often her kids: “I didn’t have grey hair before I was a mother”).
 
She paid for college by waitressing at the Farragut Inn for two years, where she again created lifelong friendships and took multitasking to a new level, a skill she used daily as a mom (Though when things got intensely busy, she was heard to say, “God only gave me two hands but three kids. Figure it out.”).  She excelled at whatever task she put her mind to: as executive assistant to the owner of Yewell Associates and of South Shore Mental Health, or teaching third grade, or at Talbots. 
 
Donna met the love of her life John Young at a bar called the 99. They married within five months of meeting, which set the gossip circuits aflame, but their daughter Pauline (Rush) arrived a solid 13 months after their wedding. Motherhood was Donna’s calling, and 18 months later, Stephanie (Rosen) joined the family, followed by John (Jake) three years later. (Her girls recall her saying, “A son is the anchor to a mother’s heart.” Her boy remembers her saying, “The world does not revolve around the S-O-N”.)
 
Donna considered her first foreign assignment to be Pampa, Texas. Determined to “bloom where you are planted”, her friendships blossomed. Upon moving to Hingham, MA, Donna and John acquired their dream home and lived out the maxim: “Your friends become family.” She amassed a very large family during her life. 
 
When John was transferred to Brazil for work, Donna was convinced she, John and all three children would be killed in an uprising, but she summoned her courage and moved anyway: “We’ve got to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, Kids.”  (Although bootstraps had long since gone out of style, she got her point across.)
 
In Brazil, she lived with her usual gusto for life, and dove into the culture. Despite her incredible ear for music and many, many lessons in Portuguese, Donna was surprised to discover that languages did not come easily to her. (When meeting John’s boss for the first time, she greeted him in her best Portuguese by saying, “Welcome to our home Dr. Hilianaro. May I please have your pants?” Mercifully, John kept his job). Donna’s adventurous spirit inspired incredible travel across all of South America, and then Europe, when John was transferred to Paris, France. 
 
In Paris, upon encountering the horror that is called French grammar, Donna enlisted a beloved member of the WWII French Resistance for weekly assistance over a six year period. Donna quickly assimilated to Parisian life, thanks to her impeccable sense of style, elegance and grace. In Paris, she headed up the American Catholic Women’s Organization, took gourmet cooking lessons, and knew all the best places to dine and shop: in short, she thrived. When factoring in her close friendships from Paris, her Christmas card list could be said to rival that only of Santa Claus. She was a bright star to all who knew her; her joie de vivre warming up the rainy gloom and chill of Parisian winters for her family especially. (And when that didn’t work, it was: “Kids, I’m cold; put on a sweater.”)
 
Wherever Donna went, she thrived because she was so interested in the people around her. She was a volunteer reader on the radio for the blind for over 20 years. She took friendship to new heights through her cards, baking, calls, laughter, lunches, and walks. Her incredible empathy and warmth drew people to her, and her optimism, humor and love of music brought joy to those of us who had the honor to know her. When she did not agree with other’s choices (ahem, often her kids), she would say to herself, (rather audibly), “Just smile and wear beige.” 
 
Her 56-year marriage to John was the cornerstone of her life. She and John loved to entertain, no matter where they were, and their dinner parties and celebrations were legendary.
 
Her Catholic faith was the anchor of her life. She spent years as a lector and Eucharistic minister. She was especially devoted to Mary, “the Mother of us All”. She loved the rosary, wore a scapular, and often gave friends novena cards and Holy Water from shrines she had visited in Fatima and Lourdes.
 
She fought hard to remain upbeat through difficult times, reminding us, “This too shall pass”. A child of the Depression, one of her favorite childhood memories was her dad coming home safely after years away in Northern Africa and Italy during WWII. In her last decade, she suffered the loss of many close friends, and battled dementia, but intentionally increased her sense of humor.
 
“One day, you’ll thank me.” Now that the day has come to thank her one last time, we are crippled by grief. We cannot thank her enough. Nor can we bear the thought of never again receiving her upbeat cards, clippings, hugs and phone calls.
 
Donna is predeceased by two months by her beloved John, with whom she literally could not live without. She leaves behind her children, their spouses Joe Rush, Jory Rosen and Darragh Fitzsimons, eight grandchildren: Florie, Bryce, Kyle, Tripp, Lillie Grace, Ali, Weston & Tyler, siblings Stephanie Cooper Clark, and Daniel Coffey (Susan), numerous nieces, nephews, Godchildren, cousins, and of course, those incredible, phenomenal lifelong friends (you know who you are).