Terry De Roo

Terry and I met about 13 years ago, at the beginning of her love story with Harvey. We were both booksellers at the dreaded Chapters in Langley and used to talk and talk in the aisles. It took a while for us to realize that we both lived in Fort Langley but somehow had never met. During my friendship with Terry and Harvey it included so many stories, so much sharing. We shared meals, movie nights up in that wonderful room on Church Street. They introduced me to my first opera! I stayed with Lily and the gang of cats when Terry and Harvey traveled. And the biggest stay of all was the year spent in the shed in the backyard of Wildwood. Terry and I had both left Chapters but met serendipitously in the parking lot of the IGA in the Fort one fine day and were catching up on our lives. I told her that I was not happy where I was living and would be looking for a new home. She said, "Move into my shed!" I have to admit, I looked at her sideways, thinking she was being very flippant about my angst. Insulting even. Ha, not a chance. She was serious. She explained that she'd moved into the shed in the yard at one point to gain perspective on her own life, and that I was very welcome to try it out myself. This, in a nutshell, is Terry. So kind! And ingenious! I did move into the shed and weathered my own life experiences under that roof with the lamps of Wildwood softly glowing next door. Fast forward....Terry was moved to the palliative care unit at Royal Jubilee the first week of August, the plan being that she would stabilize there and then return to her beloved Harvey and their beloved home on Saltspring. Life gave me the opportunity to spend six hours a day, six precious days with Terry in her room at the Victoria Hospital. I know that it was my chance to repay the enormous kindness and generosity that Terry has always shown me, but it was much more than that. Once again I was being given a gift. I had the privilege of being completely present in that room with my friend while she valiantly struggled with her physical pain, and heroically, with a wide open broken heart, faced the ending of her life that she loved so dearly. We laughed. We cried. Told stories. I brought in a flower or a twig a day to add to her vase. I memorized a couple of really raunchy jokes that she relished. So good to hear her laugh! And she practiced her gratitude and kindness moment by moment, hour after hour, on every nurse and aide that came in the door, despite the agony and fear she was in. I taught her something that I believe gave her comfort. She so wanted everyone in her life to know how much she loved them and how much she had always wished for their happiness, their safety. We talked about the heartbreak of having to come to terms with the knowledge that some problems may never be solved. With mistakes that can never be undone. No time left. Not in this lifetime. We talked as women, friends, mothers. And that is 'wabi-sabi.' She marveled at this, this wabi-sabi way of acceptance. We have wabi-sabi lives. They are perfectly imperfect, and imperfectly perfect. It became almost a mantra, something that gave comfort, and also lifted one to an acceptance, and a pride, too. We are so human in our wabi-sabi lives. The perfect part of Terry's life was the great love she felt for her family and friends. You could feel that love. It shone out from her eyes. It was steady, it was gentle, it was unwavering. She was lit from within by it. Knowing Terry was a gift. Even on the last day when we said goodbye, and nodded, and said, "wabi-sabi," and "I love you," she still had that light in her eyes that I always saw. It was her hope for goodness. It was love. I am sending love right now to Terry, and I believe that she will receive it. I will always be grateful that Terry was my friend.