Some years are full of hope and possibility, some just bump along, status quo, and some years just arrive and knock the wind out of you, continuously, like you accidentally walked into the ring with a punch-drunk prize fighter that has no pity. I don't know if it's to remind us of life's impermanence, or to make us take stock, or just because statistically it has to happen some time. Probably the latter, but it still feels no less cruel.
When I was a girl, our family had a year like that. We lost both my mom and my cousin within months of one another, my dad wound up in the hospital with blood clots and soon after lost a job he'd had for years. I felt it, of course, all of it, but kids are resilient. Therapy came later. It helped, but that year still formed me. It's one of the reasons I am grateful to work with kids who have trauma. Not to work out my own stuff, but because I have a certain perspective about it.
This year began with the sudden loss of our nephew in a car accident, and it wracked our family. It was like a bomb went off. We are still reeling - grief comes on in waves, and while at times it's less acute, it is no less heartbreaking. The permanence of it, the marks it has left on our hearts still feels so tender, like we are healing from something completely physical, like someone tore a limb off and put it back on wrong. Everything feels like we are stepping carefully through a world that we don't recognize. Even though grief is not unfamiliar to me, it seems the older I get, the less resilient I am to it's randomness. Sadly, this week delivered another blow. My dear friend and neighbor collapsed on Monday, leaving her husband, her family and all who knew her bereft. That's not a word I use often or lightly, but it's the only one that feels right.
I met Angela after they moved in up the street - she and her husband showed up on our doorstep shortly before Christmas with a holiday mug filled with mix for a chocolate lava cake. I am not the kind of person to just let anyone in my house, mostly because it's usually a mess, so believe me when I say there is no one else on earth that I would allow into my house without knowing them, but Angela could charm her way into anything. And, hello, she had chocolate! She was from Louisiana, and while she had the wit and vivaciousness of a Southern Belle, she didn't have an ounce of pretense. A few years passed and we would see each other on the street and wave hello, but eventually, in 2011, our family got a dog and I began walking her every morning. Angela asked if I would ever like some company, and the rest is history. I soon lost that dog, got another, a terrier named Maisy, and two weeks after we got our new pooch, Angela and Don got their dog Marnie. Then, Angela decided it would be a good idea if we started running in the morning. Believe me when I tell you - the ONLY person who could EVER get me to run. in. the. morning.... is Angela. I say run, but what I mean is, I followed her bobbing ponytail from a distance, wondering if each day would be my last. I hated running. Until I didn't. And that was because of Angela. She wasn't just my cheerleader, she drove me nuts with her positive attitude until I could have one myself.
Those mornings were the best. We told each other everything. There was no such thing as TMI with Angela and I. I know that I am not the only one who feels this way - Angela was a fantastic friend to so many people. She and her husband Don were social butterflies, and had a slew of good friends that they socialized with. I heard about all of them, in detail. She was meticulous in the way she cared for others, and she always made you feel important. Her parents told me that she never met a stranger, and I witnessed it. There were times when we would be out walking and she would strike up a conversation with anyone, much to my chagrin. My sense of caution, though, was always outweighed by her ability to connect with people. As a friend, she was a brilliant listener, but she also felt free to tell you when you were full of it, and although it didn't happen often with us, when it did, I took it to heart. She was wise counsel.
In 2014, our daily runs were abruptly brought to a halt. At nearly the same time, Angela wound up in the hospital with a burst appendix, and I developed debilitating migraines brought on by exertion. During her diagnosis for her appendix, they discovered that she had a spot on her imaging that didn't look right. It turned out to be a recurrence of a melanoma that she had many years earlier. My headaches turned out to be something called Fibromuscular Displaysia. Even with all of this news, though, we continued to walk when we could. It wasn't as regular, but we still got out there with our dogs, and we always held out hope that we could make it a ritual again. We knew it would be different, but we both felt sure that it would happen. We walked a bit slower, and we took breaks, but that just gave us more time to talk. She made progress with her drug regimen, and for quite a while things looked very promising. She was a force of nature and it just never seemed possible that we wouldn't be back at it at some point, just by sheer force of will.
It just wasn't to be. Things took a turn this past summer, when her scans showed the cancer turning up again. She was getting ready for chemo, when she had a horrible reaction to one of her non-cancer fighting drugs. It knocked her down and took a toll, but again, she fought like the champion that she was. At that point, I had begun walking her dog with mine in the morning, letting myself in with my key. Her parents had come to stay with she and her husband to care for her while she recovered, and to help her when she started chemo. She had her first round last Saturday, and on Tuesday morning, she collapsed at home. That morning, I had let myself in with my key, and just taken them around the block when I came back to find her husband waiting for me in the driveway. They had just gotten home from the hospital. We hugged and cried in the street as the sun was rising. I can't fathom (or I worse, I can) the loss her family feels.
I have been walking through this all in a daze. My family has been amazing, and it has meant so much to be able to just walk up the street and hug her family. I am trying to stay in the present, though, because it's hard to picture the future without my friend, without our nephew, and knowing that loss is inevitable and will keep delivering to my doorstep. My tether to this world is to just keep walking, to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and to keep hugging the people I love.
I leave you with this, from my favorite Chekhov play, Uncle Vanya:
"What can we do? We must live our lives. [A pause] Yes, we shall live, Uncle Vanya. We shall live through the long procession of days before us, and through the long evenings; we shall patiently bear the trials that fate imposes on us; we shall work for others without rest, both now and when we are old; and when our last hour comes we shall meet it humbly, and there, beyond the grave, we shall say that we have suffered and wept, that our life was bitter, and God will have pity on us. Ah, then dear, dear Uncle, we shall see that bright and beautiful life; we shall rejoice and look back upon our sorrow here; a tender smile—and—we shall rest. I have faith, Uncle, fervent, passionate faith. [SONIA kneels down before her uncle and lays her head on his hands. She speaks in a weary voice] We shall rest. [TELEGIN plays softly on the guitar] We shall rest. We shall hear the angels. We shall see heaven shining like a jewel. We shall see all evil and all our pain sink away in the great compassion that shall enfold the world. Our life will be as peaceful and tender and sweet as a caress. I have faith; I have faith. [She wipes away her tears] "
She wipes away her tears.
She wipes away her tears.
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