On life, love and loss

“I refuse to think of death. I decide that every day is going to be my best day ever. And it is.”

— Joyce Iris Miller (1930 – 2009)

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The abruptness of my last blog entry suggests that something sudden and unfortunate occurred here in Art and Words land. And it had. My mother-in-law, Joyce Miller, passed away on the evening of December 9th at the age of 79. Since then, we’ve been thrown into a land of bereavement and its aftermath, both emotional and practical.

It’s amazing how much time and energy loss takes. I’m certainly old enough to know loss in my life. But this one has really cut to the bone. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard if Joyce’s death had been expected. But it wasn’t — she had a sudden heart attack and died instantly. Otherwise, she was a vital force until the end, full of good humor and joy (as her name suggests). Besides a husband of 56 years, she left behind a daughter and a son — my husband — and two granddaughters.

How can I describe her without sounding like a hagiography? But all this is true — she was simply an extraordinarily generous person who saw the beauty and good wherever she went.

She gave her time and talents to numerous non-profits organizations, including the Library of Congress and the Women’s Democratic Club. She was someone who gathered friends everywhere she went and kept them. Joyce was also the best grandmother to my daughter Thea. Filled with patience and playfulness, she always had some special surprise to greet Thea with every time we visited her in Washington, DC, where she lived. She was always ready to tell a story or to give a hug.

Joyce also loved to have fun and enjoyed beautiful environments. Before her death, we had talked about taking a trip to Monticello and Newport to view the mansions of the rich and famous. She also enjoyed a good gossip and a dry vodka martini, preferably on the rocks with olives. One of my favorite Joyce quotes: “I gave up guilt. It wasn’t that hard to do.”

Joyce Miller was one of my favorite people in this world, and possibly the kindest person I’ve ever met. Last week, we laid her to rest in a grave we covered in peach-colored roses, not far from where John Philip Sousa was buried.

I miss her greatly already. But I feel blessed to have known her.

Joyce Miller with Tom in Rome, sometime in the 1970s.

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