The world is grayer. The stars have lost their sparkle. Sharp edges have dulled. And my heart has another fissure, bleeding more love and all things good with the death of my sister-in-law and friend, Katie, last week—someone so loved I can’t fully come to grips with a world where she doesn’t physically exist. It doesn’t seem possible to silence such a powerful force of nature. She possessed the kind of light I don’t think I’ll ever stop looking for.
When Ken and I first moved to LA, we lived in the guest house of Katie and Craig (Ken’s brother), who easily became my family, as well. The benefits of proximity were plentiful, and included lots of time with them and our nephews, Jack and Nathan, who were both in single digits at the time. We played tons of family board games together. One I remember in particular is called Cranium. It was fun, chaotic and creative, but there was a part in the directions none of us understood, so we’d declare that part of the game we were entering as “outside of space and time” so it wouldn’t have any implications on the game as we knew it. We could just carry on without any of the complexities we didn’t fully grasp. Mischief managed! It was just one of so many games we played together as a family, particularly on holidays or the lead-up to a busy holiday fraught with people and activities.
Katie led the charge for family fun time and great adventures. She mystified me by executing a plan in grave detail or winging it effortlessly because family was the most important thing to her. She relished in family. You saw it on her face. You felt it in her radiant presence. You didn’t have to know her well at all to know that. Her thoughtfulness and attention to detail made anyone feel special. She made me feel special from the first moment I met her when Ken and I vacationed in LA to visit them before we decided to move there. She felt like an ally from the beginning—another sister for the likes of lucky me.
So many kind deeds she gladly performed pinball in my head as I grapple with my grief. When she visited while Ken was in hospice, the two of them orchestrated an excursion together that they titled their “Grand Day Out,” laying the groundwork for Ken getting a tattoo he so desperately wanted a couple of weeks later. He was growing weak by then, but I knew I didn’t have to worry about him in Katie’s capable and loving hands. They had been good friends long before she was his sister-in-law. She loved him with her whole heart. It’s how she loved. I know firsthand how vividly seen that makes you feel.
I’m better for knowing, loving, and being loved by Katie. There are many things I’ll continue to cherish about her—a radiant smile that could light up the most hopeless darkness—another firsthand account from yours truly. She was a close confidant to me when Ken was diagnosed with cancer in 2009. Late-night phone calls. Lots of tears. Sadness bolstered by kindness and understanding. She remained a staunch and loving supporter of both of us during his illness, and of me after his death. Her strength and support meant so much to me. It was something that seemed to come naturally to her: being a pillar to lean on. I leaned hard, and she steadfastly supported me with granite resolve.
She embodied both incredible strength and incredible tenderness. Though she wasn’t to be trifled with, she’d drop everything and do whatever she could to help if you needed her. She was a lioness when it came to her sons and fiercely loyal to those she loved. I needed her many times in our shared time together, and she always delivered the way she loved: with her whole heart.
It’s important to call out injustice when you see it. Likewise, it’s as important to call out goodness when you’ve experienced it–when you’ve been bathed in it. Katie was goodness. The world dims in her absence—so many hearts fracturing at the injustice and loss of such a powerful and loving presence.
We all have too much experience with grief, though, in a life filled with love, it’s the inevitable double-edged sword. In that experience, I’ve learned that love doesn’t go away. It doesn’t evaporate. It’s immutable. Once it’s there, it still lingers in the ether around you if you’re open to feeling it. It may take some time and healing, but I’m confident I’ll feel her light during moments in my future. I hope the same is true for all those who loved her. Seeing her in memories and moments shared. In a stunning sunrise. A beautiful vista of nature. A colorful painting. In laughter heard or a smile seen in a crowd. She’ll be there. One day. Because death cannot mute her vibrancy and the love she imprinted on those of us lucky enough to have loved her, though, admittedly, the deepest, most shattered part of me wishes these words were being written “outside of space and time.”
