Back in my college days, I had a whirlwind two-week trip to Paris with my boyfriend. One day, as we strolled down a charming street, I spotted two little girls with their mother. My attention was immediately drawn to the older one, dressed in a smock dress reminiscent of what my childhood friend, Lila, used to wear. The deep brown of her hair, the way it parted, and the unique way her hair curled at the ends brought back a flood of memories. It was as if Lila was standing right there in front of me. When our eyes met, I felt a jolt of recognition, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was staring at a ghost from my past. I later called my mom, who mused if that girl might be Lila’s sister. To my surprise, Lila’s mom, Marie, had moved to Paris and had two daughters, one of whom was Lila’s age.
Years went by, and loss became a recurring theme in my life. My high school friend, Jake, tragically passed away after falling asleep at the wheel. On the same day, November 20, 1992—ironically, the day I’m writing this—my stepfather succumbed to a heart attack. In my late twenties, I faced the heartbreaking loss of my best friend, Tom, to AIDS. I wanted to find signs of them everywhere, but unlike that moment with Lila, I didn’t see them in the faces of strangers. They visited me in dreams, but it was never the same. Sometimes, I’d hear Tom’s laugh in someone else’s voice or catch a glimpse of Jake’s familiar gait. These were mere echoes, reminders that felt all too fleeting.
In February 2014, I lost my friend Ava, and shortly after, my beloved grandmother, “Nana,” passed away at the age of 94. Nana was not your typical grandmother. She refused to be called “grandma,” as it made her feel ancient. To her friends, she was Peggy, but to her grandkids, she was Nana—a title that soon stuck with everyone. She had her quirks, including an extensive collection of Little Red Riding Hood memorabilia, which took over an entire room in her apartment. Every gift-giving occasion turned into a competition to find the best Little Red Riding Hood collectible.
Socializing was Nana’s forte. She was the queen of outings, be it movies or lunches, and she kept a meticulous calendar, booking lunches and dinners months in advance. The last day of her life was just like any other: she woke up, wrote a sweet letter to Mia, my 8-year-old niece, and went out for lunch with her friend. After returning home with half a sandwich for her housekeeper, she called her friend to thank her for the lovely day. Tragically, she never hung up. Just minutes later, her housekeeper found her peacefully sitting on the side of her bed, phone in hand, having passed away quietly.
I had little time to reflect on her life when a remarkable coincidence hit us that night. My brother sent an email with the subject line, “You won’t believe this.” That same day, NASA announced the discovery of a new moon born from Saturn’s rings, aptly named Peggy.
For the first time, NASA’s Cassini spacecraft had witnessed this rare event, and the timing couldn’t have been more surreal. I don’t believe in an afterlife or a heaven. To me, our atoms are recycled, mingling in some cosmic blender to create new forms of life. Though Nana is physically gone, I can’t help but feel connected to the universe in a profound way. Perhaps it’s not mere coincidence that her passing coincided with the birth of a moon named after her. It gives me hope that those we lose don’t just vanish; they transform into something new.
NASA taught me to perceive the world differently, instilling a belief that life and death are intertwined. The cosmos doesn’t erase the departed; it remixes them into new celestial bodies. Now, when I gaze at the night sky, I imagine my grandmother dancing among the stars—pretty magical, right?
If you’re curious about the cosmos and how it relates to the cycles of life and loss, take a moment to explore our other blog posts on intracervicalinsemination.com. And if you’re navigating your own journey toward parenthood, visit Make a Mom for expert insights and tools. For more resources related to fertility, check out Johns Hopkins Medicine Fertility Center.
Summary
In this reflective piece, Amanda Rivers shares her personal experiences with loss, intertwining them with a cosmic coincidence involving NASA’s discovery of a new moon named after her grandmother. Through her journey of grief and remembrance, she finds hope that life and death are connected, leading to a richer understanding of loss and transformation.