About Me

Decent wife. Good Enough Mom. (I think, but you’d have to ask my kids.) Sporadic blogger. Crazy person. Chaos Manager. Finder of stray socks and missing shoes. Loves to cook, wishes it wasn’t demanded of her daily. Runs on caffeine.

Monday, August 19, 2019

bridge

I’ve been writing this post in my head for two days, but now I can’t seem to find the words. Apologies if this post ends up sounding a little clunky.

I had this idea that came to me during her Living Memorial. For so long, I had been stuck with what I could do for her that would be light and fun. Everyone around her seemed to take her to great places to eat, to great weekend getaways, to glorious spa days and mani/pedis and all of it. I didn’t know what to do that wouldn’t be more of the same. But listening to her husband read aloud a conscious-stream-style poetry he had been writing that summed up their life together, I realized that I had known her almost as long as her husband. And that I and only a handful of people in this packed gymnasium of a couple thousand, actually knew every word of what he had written, because we knew her whole story, not just a part of it. And my idea was born. I was going to pick her up, and we were going to drive around listening to a curated playlist of all of the bands we had listened to and seen in concert together. We would find somewhere to park, smoke a joint together and just laugh and reminisce about all of our crazy shenanigans. It would be a feel good visit, not one filled with so many tears.

Sadly, we never got the chance. There are a million reasons why, and no one is to blame. Well, that’s not entirely true. We can blame cancer. We can blame time. Cancer quickly took all her good days leaving her feel fatigued and nauseated most of the time. Time continued to tick by, not waiting for her to feel better and catch up.

She was always a take-charge person, never waiting for someone else to make a decision or get the ball rolling. I met her during our first year of x-ray school. Older by 3 years, she seemed to have a world’s worth of experience over me back then. As if she was an expert at life. The first thing she did was suggest that we start a class bank account and hold fundraisers. “For what?” the rest of us asked. “Well, to fund our parties because we are going to need them to get through this program, and also because they said we had to attend conferences and those cost money”. Her and I became quickly close (it was hard not to when you spent 40+ hours a week with a small handful of people.) I stayed at her house almost half the time. We had a million crazy shenanigans together, the stuff of great stories. We studied for our boards together and rode together to go take them. She always had a plan of what we needed to do and how it should all go.

A couple years later we both getting married. She was part of the Ali community before we even knew there was an ali community. She endured several first and second trimester losses, but managed to get two take-home babies that are close in age to my two girls. She almost lost her life birthing the second baby due to some rare complications, and because of that was unable to have the size family they had always wanted. She lost her father not long after I lost mine, and also lost her grief-stricken mom, not in the physical sense, but emotionally. She endured a complete loss of income and scary financial hardships when her children were babies. She had seen her fair share of tragedy, but she never acted like it. She was always streadfast in her ability to push forward, to find a way, to just keep going. Always working toward taking care of her family and making sure they were ok, that they didn’t suffer.

Even through her cancer. She dismissed any concern over how she was doing and feeling as if it didn’t matter because she was fighting to stay alive for her family. She never worried what she might be missing, she only ever worried about what they were missing. She made sure their lives never skipped a beat with any of their activities and school functions. She would have lit herself on fire if it meant it would cure the cancer. I suspect she endured way more plain and discomfort than she ever let anyone ever know. She wouldn’t hear of slowing down or resting. At her memorial, she refused to let anyone help with 95% of it. She was on her feet for hours that day talking to every single person and asking if everyone had eaten, even though she herself had not stopped to sit down and eat. By her seat was a tower of full plates of food that people had made and brought to her that she wouldn’t take a moment to touch, lest she miss talking to someone.

During her last weeks she was struggling because her girls (14 and 17) were beginning to act out a bit, which is completely understandable. But she was determined to be there and continue to talk to them about how bad behavior was not a way to cope. She made sure every last detail was taken care of, and had lists and instructions for her husband to handle all the accounts and payments and doctor things. She scheduled every dentist and doctor appointment she possibly could to make sure things would not be forgotten. She told everyone that she was going to be ok, as long as she knew they were.

I spoke with her often in the last couple of weeks, the last time on a Friday. After a couple of days I checked in again but didn’t hear back. That wasn’t unusual especially more recently because she would have a group of bad days and it would be quiet. Based on how she was feeling I knew she didn’t have much time left. I probably sent three each a couple days apart, the last one being Friday, a week after we last spoke.

I got the call from her husband on Saturday morning that she had passed a couple hours earlier, and he had had her phone and knew I had been reaching out so he told me, but didn’t really care how most other found out. He talked to me about how the end was much, much worse than they had told him it would be, and it was just as bad to wake their daughters to tell them the news. My heart just broke for them all. It’s all just so unfair. 44. She was 44. Her girls are 17 and 14. None of them deserves this. Her selfless way transferred to them because all her husband talks about is how sad he is that she had to suffer so damn much.

I’ve mostly been grieving for how sad I am for her family. For the heartache they feel. For the hole left in their lives.

But then I think about me and how I feel. And how much fun we had together, and how when we did get together we would forget we were adults for a time and how nice and freeing that was. But also that she is one of the only people who knew me before and after. Before adulthood and family and real jobs and responsibilities. Going through that program together, we knew each other in a way no one else really could. She was someone I met young enough where she still was able to learn all of my past and be present for my future; most friends we meet as adults don’t really get to know our entire life history in quite the same way. I’ve been thinking back hard to remember all the stories. She probably remembered some things I had forgotten about. I had found some old pictures I took to her for her memorial (after I got a copy for myself saved onto a CD) and a few I had no idea where they were taken but she did.

I’ve been stuck on the thoughts of that...how she was a bridge between my life then and my life now. And how weird it is that she is now gone. That is where my thoughts and sadness sit, on that bridge, suspended in the ether, still learning from her even after she’s gone.

6 comments:

  1. I'm so so sorry to read this, even though it was inevitable. It's a beautiful tribute to your friend and your friendship. I hope the memories of your life together continue to form that bridge, and give you comfort as you mourn her loss. Sending love.

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  2. I am sorry for your loss. A true friend's value is priceless. I had never heard of a living memorial before, i think that is beautiful.

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  3. Charlotte, I am so sorry for the loss of your friend. You've written a beautiful telling of your friendship and the time together through before and now and all the stages of life you got to do with her. It's not fair that was cut short. I am sending you love, and comfort, and a big giant-squeeze hug. I'm so, so sorry for this loss.

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  4. I'm so sorry for the loss of your friend, and the heartache her family is enduring. How lovely that she was able to attend her own memorial and know the impact she made on everyone.

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  5. I am so deeply sorry for your loss. She sounds like an amazing friend and person. Sending you much love.

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  6. I am so late to comment on this post. What a beautiful tribute to your friend and I'm so sorry that you lost her.

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