With all of the media coverage on the untimely deaths of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett, I started thinking about one of our staff members at Hay House and a dear friend who passed away two years ago. Susan was only 52 years old.

The last day I would ever see Susan was on a Thursday. It was an unusually hectic day at work and we didn’t see much of each other. Yet at the end of each workday, Susan and I always managed to find each other before we left for home.  It was our few minutes to reconnect and share our musings on the day.

This time, it was a speedier goodbye since I was scurrying off to a dinner and Susan was busy getting some last-minute assignment done. We chatted for a minute, exchanged our usual smiles and bid each other a “see you tomorrow” nod.

But tomorrow never came. Susan’s upset stomach and “just not feeling right” mood turned into a cancer that wasn’t very kind. It took her away from us in less than five weeks. As we all know, cancer has no heart or conscience and only strikes those we love the most.

I called Susan’s mom last weekend to see how she was getting along without her only daughter. Over the months, Barbara and I regularly caught up over the phone, finding some peace of mind as we shared our stories about Susan. This time, Barbara and I talked about the movie Mamma Mia. Susan had already passed when the DVD version came out, but she had attended the play with her mom.

Barbara and I laughed when we talked about how much Susan loved Abba and how she knew all the words to every one of their songs. Then her mom told me that when they saw the play version of Mamma Mia in San Diego, Susan got up in the aisle and started dancing with people around her that she didn’t even know.

After I hung up the phone, I kept picturing Susan dancing in the theatre with strangers. She was quite reserved at the office and I never knew she did this. It made me so happy imagining her just bursting with joy over the music she loved, and jumping up out of her seat as it filled her soul to dance with the crowd.

When Susan died, the music stopped playing. I never thought I’d hear it again. Or sleep through the night without crying. Or be able to walk past her empty desk without feeling a pain deep in my gut. Susan slipped away so quickly and the hardest part was not getting the chance to say goodbye. I learned a hard lesson back then.

When I picture her dancing and singing to her heart’s content, I realize that life is the music and we’ve been singing and dancing to it as long as we’ve known each other.  And maybe, just maybe, whenever we connect in the melody of friendship, it doesn’t really matter what words we forgot to mention or were too busy to say out loud.

The much-loved author and founder of our company, Louise Hay has a beautiful way of looking at the passing of our loved ones in her book Heart Thoughts. She says that there is no death because our spirit is eternal. “It is the part of us that goes on forever. All the people we know who have left the planet are still here in pure essence and pure spirit.”

And perhaps they are also here in pure music. Like today when the radio just happened to be playing one of Susan’s favorite songs.

Friday night and the lights are low.
Looking out for a place to go, where they play the right music…
You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life.
See that girl, watch that scene, that’s our Dancing Queen.