I Did Not Notice Grief When It Arrived

Eunice Curry
Jul 21
6 min read

A reflection on presence, faith, and the quiet beginning of loss

We met at Giovanni’s and Son’s in Royersford, PA. A pizza date—something we’d done for years. Since we were teenagers, really. Back then it was Mondays at Lorenzo’s on 9th and Christian in South Philly. A large pizza and a good talk. That was our rhythm. No big plans, just presence.He was my cousin by blood—but in every meaningful way, he was also my brother. One of my best friends. Our connection was lifelong, steady, and deep. When he reached out a couple of weeks earlier and asked to meet “face to face,” I didn’t hesitate. That kind of request wasn’t unusual for us—but something about it felt heavier. More intentional.Still, I didn’t feel nervous. I just knew I needed to be there. We chose Giovanni’s—a place we both liked. Familiar. Easy.

That Conversation

When he told me the cancer was back—Stage 4—and that he wasn’t going to do treatment, I listened. He was calm. Clear. Assured. He told me he wasn’t afraid. That he was at peace and trusting God. I asked questions—not to challenge him, but because I cared. He told me treatment wouldn’t change the outcome. And I believed him. But what struck me most in that conversation was what he didn’t say. He didn’t say he was asking God for healing. He said, “I’m at peace.”He wasn’t seeking a miracle—he had already accepted the outcome. And he didn’t ask for my opinion, either, which was rare. He would often say, “Let me run something by you.” But that day, he didn’t. He wasn’t looking for input—he was telling me: I’m dying.He stood on his faith that day. And I was in awe of it. A kind of faith I’d rarely seen up close. Later, when he mentioned that a pastor from his church had commented on how strong his faith was, I wasn’t surprised. Because I’d seen it firsthand. It was quiet, unwavering, already settled.And isn’t that what faith is supposed to look like? As Christians, we say we believe. But so often, that belief wavers when adversity comes. He didn’t waver. In that moment, I realized that God could carry him through this journey in ways I never could. And I also realized something else: I needed to respect his decision. So often we respond to someone else’s path with what we think they should do—as if our opinion matters more than what they need. But this wasn’t about me. It was about honoring his peace.

I Didn’t Cry Then

I wasn’t thinking about what it meant for me yet. I was focused on him. On his comfort. His care. His spirit. I told him this was the time to be selfish, to put his needs first. I encouraged him to take advantage of every support offered—especially counseling—because he deserved a space where he didn’t have to carry anyone else’s emotions. Not mine. Not anyone’s. But inside, I was feeling it. I didn’t cry. I didn’t fall apart. I even said to him, “I don’t know what’s going on with me. I don’t like this. I can’t find my emotions right now.” He looked at me and said, “I know you love me.” I told him, “I sure do.”When we got up to leave, he chuckled and said, “I’m always taking you on a journey.” And I said back to him, without even thinking, “I’m going to be right there.”

On the Drive Home

That night, when I returned home, I cried. Hard. I thought about our whole life together—how as teens he’d walk with me to Lane Bryant on 12th and Chestnut just because I felt like going. How steady and loyal he always was. How much of my life he had stood beside me for. Not just as a cousin. As my brother. As one of my best friends. And here’s what I’ve come to understand: I knew what grief looked like. I’ve walked with others through it. Even as a grief counselor, I wasn’t fully prepared for how quietly anticipatory grief settles in. I knew what it was clinically—but living it was something else. I was disconnected from the fact that that day was the beginning of my grief. It didn’t look like falling apart. It looked like holding space. It looked like presence. It looked like love making room for loss, even before the end came. When he told me he was at peace, I shifted from hoping for recovery to holding the reality of his decline.

What Was Hardest

It is difficult to watch someone you love suffer with a terminal illness. Even though his faith was strong, for me it was difficult to reconcile that his transition would be so painful both physically and emotionally. Although he was stoic and independent and he did not complain, I was aware of what every medical appointment entailed. I was aware of how his body and that disease were in constant battle and he had to carry that with him every day.I had dinner with him on Mother's Day weekend. I had not seen him for about a month and that day, when he got out of the car I was waiting outside for him. As soon as he got out, with a cane, he immediately looked different to me. He did not look the same. I began praying under my breath as he walked across the parking lot towards me. I knew what I did not want to accept.We talked over dinner but it was different. There were a few times that our eyes met and we both did not speak but just looked. I truly believe that we both knew what was coming next. He was not going to be here with me much longer.

Who He Was

Rasheem was a registered nurse who found joy in serving people. He worked in a variety of settings—nursing homes, the prison system, and hospice care. Most notably, he once told me how much he genuinely enjoyed caring for patients in hospice. That stayed with me. He wasn’t afraid of the end—he understood it, respected it, and showed up with compassion in those sacred moments.

He also had a deep love for dogs. That love was lifelong. It was hard to watch him re-home his most recent companion, Karma—a beautiful brown Doberman he cared for until he couldn’t anymore. Letting Karma go was a quiet grief of its own. Rasheem discovered his love for cycling as a child, riding through the streets of Philly with his cousins and friends. What started as joy turned into passion. As an adult, he became an avid cyclist—riding in groups across Philadelphia and Lancaster, challenging himself with long-distance routes up to 40 miles. He didn’t just ride—he invested in the best gear, high-quality bikes, and knew the ins and outs of the sport. For Rasheem, cycling wasn’t just exercise. It was freedom. It was peace. We shared so much of life together.

Major family events, ordinary days, sacred routines. Thanksgiving was a big one—we started a tradition with a close group of family, always at my place, and I’d cook a feast. He would come with me to shop, sometimes cover the bill, and say, “You’re doing all the cooking—the least I can do is contribute.” We also made a point to celebrate our mothers together, made time for the little things that felt like everything.

And more than anything—he made me laugh.

I’m a serious person by nature, but he could always crack through that.

He was the one person who could get a real chuckle out of me, no matter how heavy life felt. We shared so many hilarious moments, and when we laughed, we laughed hard. That kind of laughter—the kind only years of history and deep trust can create—is something I will always hold close.He was a major figure in my life.