Farewell, Kate

Today I attended the funeral of a friend. As with all difficult situations, when faced with them, I write. Had I had the opportunity (and the courage to actually read it aloud), this would have been her eulogy:

Most people don’t stay in touch with co-workers once they leave a job. Oh, we all have good intentions, but typically, when we leave a job, we leave the people we work with, too.

Not so with Kate.

There’s a saying that goes something like:

“People won’t remember what you said,

People won’t remember what you did,

But they will always remember how you made them feel.”

I was engaged to my husband when we were working together, and I remember a particular instance early on when she calmed me at work after having had a “run-in” with the music director at the church where we were to be married. I don’t remember what Kate said specifically (although I’m almost positive she had some choice words describing the music director), but I remember the feeling, how truly concerned and sympathetic she was. I felt calmed and validated and knew that we were bound to be friends.

She and I met as coworkers eighteen years ago, when we were known as “assessors,” which sounds far more impressive than it really was. Our work required travel to and from Flint, Michigan on a weekly basis, leaving Sunday afternoon and returning Thursdays. Our days were spent “assessing” and our evenings were spent eating out and spending a good deal of time at the hotel bar with all the other assessors, followed by cards or movies and always conversation in each other’s’ rooms. It was like college all over again.

Needless to say, we all got to know one another pretty quickly, and Kate and I immediately connected.

She was easy to connect with. She shared easily, and was a great listener. And she remembered everything.

The next years for me are a blur: marriage, work, one baby, and then another. But through it all we kept in touch. And she was always interested in what was going on with me, with my husband, and my kids.

She and I always joked that we both had this uncanny ability to follow each other’s trains of thought. We could have a conversation and jump from one idea to the next, and still manage to come back to the original thought, resolving them all. We were like a couple of stoners, without the drug. Invariably, one of us would say, “I’m with ya’…” when the other would start to digress. It always made sense to us, but I’m sure someone observing would have thought we were a little eccentric, or drunk. And sometimes they would have been right.

I was describing Kate to a couple of my friends the other day and described her as “my smart friend.” She was so smart, so well-read, educated and so willing to learn. I loved and admired that about her. I truly feel that being her friend made me a better person because she opened my eyes to books or ideas I might never have considered. But, regardless of her education and intelligence, she was never condescending. (I’m hoping she didn’t refer to me as her slow friend…)

The last time I saw her she received the news that she would need a third round of chemo. I felt as if I was intruding when the doctor and nurse came in the room, but she was unshaken. I was in awe at her strength at receiving the news: she did not cry, or get angry, just signed the paper and expressed her disappointment at not being able to go home. Even when she called her husband, she was calm and ready for the next step. But she was tired. We hugged good-bye and promises were made to reunite at City Theatre, where we had been season ticket holders together for the past six years or so.

I’ve thought about this visit a lot since I heard of her passing and I came to the realization that with Kate there never was any drama, and I believe this is what defined her as a friend. She didn’t get upset or angry if months went by without a phone call, she didn’t act different or begrudging when life’s circumstances like marriage or kids came into the picture, even if she was yearning for those things for herself. She catered to her “slow friends.”

It’s strange, because Kate and I didn’t see each other very often, but I will miss her. I will miss having her ear, and following her trains of thought, and watching her face light up sharing some story about her daughter. I will miss going to shows and having to actually read the program because she’s not there to share the background she already knew. I will miss my smart friend.

Living for the Dead

I lost a friend to cancer this past weekend.  Her battle was brief, having been diagnosed with leukemia this past July.  She leaves behind a husband and six year-old daughter.  Unfortunately, I am no stranger to death and grieving.  Seven years ago, in the span of nineteen months, I lost my older brother, mother and father.

Because of this loss I feel a deeper connection with the human condition, but mostly, I live for those I’ve lost.

Losing someone obviously makes things you shared with them more poignant: a bracelet bought together, a song on the radio, or simply preparing a recipe in a mixing bowl where countless other recipes were prepared.  And I miss them.  Terribly.  I consider myself a recovering griever, because I don’t believe you’re ever “done” grieving.  It just takes different forms.

The thing that surprises me most, though, is that, years later, I’m inspired by their deaths.  I appreciate my life more and want to live it better because I know they would want to have had the opportunity to do the same.  I am a Christian, and believe in an afterlife, but who really knows?  I like to believe that whatever is on the other side is far superior to what we have here, but when you start to look, really look, it’s not too bad here, either.

My brother ran cross country in high school and college, and when I run, he inspires me.  I feel my heart pumping, and listen to my breath; I feel the sweat on my brow.  My mom was a kind soul and she is with me whenever I deliver food to a sick friend or drop a birthday card in the mail.  My dad was a fixer and when something breaks, I do my damndest to figure out how to put it back together again.

All my friend Kate wanted to do, after having received three rounds of chemotherapy and being in a hospital room for over two months, was see and be with her precious girl and husband.  She didn’t want a fancy car, or new clothes.  She only wanted time with those she loved and who loved her.

Every morning I wake up I’m given 24 hours.  Time to run, time to enjoy good food, time to work, time to feel all the good and all the pain, and time to be with loved ones.  Time to smile at a stranger, time to watch the leaves move in the wind, to feel the sun on my face.  I’m painfully aware that my brother, my mother, my father, Kate and countless others don’t have that opportunity and that my time is also limited.  Hell, I may not make it through the 24 hours.

So I live for them.  Because they can’t.  Because I know they would want it to be that way.  They would want to be an inspiration, not a source of sadness.  They inspire me to soak it all in, to take chances, to write.  And I love them even more for it.

See you on the other side, Kate.  Until then, I will live my life for you and every time I kiss my precious boys, you will be there.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

~ Jalal ad-Din Rumi