A year ago this week, my grandmother lay dying in a hospital bed, cradled in my mother’s arms.
Losing her, especially since it was so sudden, was heartbreaking.
In the aftermath, I noticed the various ways in which mourning a loved one overwhelms and sometimes stupefies a person, specifically my mother.
I felt helpless seeing her in so much pain.
All I wanted to do was bring her as much peace as I possibly could, so I did what I do in good times, in bad times and in all the gray areas in between – I read.
But I had no interest in cliches or flimsy “feel good” messages.
I was searching for something beautiful, true and everlasting; something that would help quiet the storm in my mother’s heart.
In the end, science gave me what I had been seeking,
A member of a message board exploring the concept of death named Ciara urged other members to note that “every single proton and neutron that make up every single atom and molecule in my body, and your body, and the bodies of every person that has ever existed and ever will exist, were created at the beginning of the universe just after the Big Bang. And, every one of those protons and neutrons, in some shape or form, will exist for as long as the universe does.”
Another member of a message board with a similar theme referred to this as the “cosmic immortality” of which we are all heirs.
I was so amazed at the thought of part of my grandmother still being a part of this world that I had to stop reading and just reflect for a few minutes.
The worst part of saying goodbye to her was facing the fact that I would never talk to her, see her, or hug her ever again, and I felt as if it wasn’t possible for her to be totally gone.
I felt as if she was still around me, and now I have proof that part of her is.
I delved deeper into the subject when I came across the transcript of a commentary on National Public Radio from writer Aaron Freeman called “Planning Ahead Can Make a Difference in the End.”
Freeman says the person you want to speak at your funeral isn’t a religious leader or other standard speaker, but rather a physicist.
Freeman explains that the physicist would explain conservation of energy and the first law of thermodynamics to your loved ones, teaching them that you have died, but your energy has not.
He says, “You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world … All the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you.”
The sheer poetry of Freeman’s commentary brought me to tears.
And the best part of it is that it’s true.
It’s a scientific fact that everyone we’ve ever loved and lost still exists in some way or another, and not just in our hearts and memories.
Most students have lost at least one important person in their lives by the time they start college, and with the high number of recent student deaths, many of us falcons know the process of mourning all too well.
So I’m sharing the most precious advice I’ve ever received for how to deal with the sorrow, courtesy of a stranger on the Internet:
A little bit of everyone you’ve ever loved and lost still shares this universe with you, “whether it be in a blade of grass, the air we breathe, the clouds of a nebula,” Ciara muses, “or the heart of a brilliant, burning star.”
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