Nine Years
Nine years ago today, a 49-year-old woman took her last breath.
She was my friend. I had known her for almost twenty years. Through medical school, residency, attendinghood, motherhood.
She was quiet. Unassuming. A sharp contrast to the loud, obnoxious person I was almost thirty years ago when we met.
She asked a lot of questions—to the point of seeming nosy. It was only after some time and maturity that I realized she was genuinely interested in learning about other people.
She was slow to trust. Nothing wrong with that. But in the beginning, she could appear aloof.
Asking for help didn’t come easily either. Probably related to the trust.
She loved her kids fiercely and worried about them, as so many of us do. But she had a deep empathy for what they were feeling—especially her oldest. You could tell they had shared quite a journey together.
She made amazing brownies. I’ve missed them these last nine years.
She forced me out of bed the morning after the 2016 election, when I had hidden under the covers until 11 a.m.
She knew when to hold her tongue. And when she didn’t, she could deliver a zing with a forceful but reserved manner.
Being the center of attention was not for her. In fact, she abhorred it, preferring to stay on the outskirts.
She was…Methodical. Deliberate. Organized.
She had classy clothes. Tall shoes. Delicate jewelry. She was always dressed impeccably, perhaps a result of her East Coast upbringing.
She was confident. At least she seemed confident. I think it was the nine years she had on me. She didn’t care what people thought. I was just entering my 40s when she died and hadn’t yet learned how to not give a fuck.
She had the best posture. In my memories, I am always a foot shorter than her, even though that’s probably an exaggeration. Maybe posture isn’t the right word. Stature. Presence. She seemed to take up more space than I did, even when she wasn’t trying to.
She made me get a dog. She told me it would change my life.
She was right.
She cared about her patients. She tied up all the loose ends before she died, personally calling the cardiologist and insisting that her last patient be given an appointment. She knew no one might follow up when she was gone, so even in what would be her last moments, she was focused on making sure her patients were taken care of.
She worried about her family. Sometimes at the price of her own health.
Especially in the end.
She trusted me. I don’t know what or why. But, man, did I get lucky that she saw something in me that I didn’t even know I possessed.
And she took my advice…
until the day she didn’t.
It’s been nine years.
I think about her at least once a day.
Usually when I’m walking my dogs. (Having a dog changed my life so much that I got a second one after she died.)
When I see her rose bushes.
When I see the sunsets in the fall.
When I sit quietly on my swing and watch the strong, unassuming flowering tree planted in her honor in the backyard.
Here's to you, my friend.
Comments