This is a follow up to my post “A Love Letter?”
My friend died two days ago. I had been sending a funny card each week to cheer her up. A poignant thought occurred to me; I still have a pile of cards left.
She went too soon in every sense of the word.
I miss her very much.
I love her. She wasn’t my best friend and I wasn’t hers. I was with her five days a week eight hours a day. Why do I constantly refer to her in the past tense? She is not dead yet. She is a shell of the woman she was though. A little bird. She has known she has ALS for about a year and a half now. The transformation has been shocking.
I love her style and her kindness. She is so vivacious even now although she can’t talk anymore. Her texts are all her. That hasn’t changed, still worried about everyone else.
She has to have help getting dressed. She must have a lot of input because even in her condition she always looks more put together than I do.
The end is closing in on us. I say us because we are the ones that will be left behind with a gigantic hole left in our lives. She will be out of her misery.
I’ve had friends die before, but suddenly (violently) I have never had someone so close suffer for so long.
God, I already miss her, have for about the last year. Her voice is still on the voicemail. A reminder of the way she was. I listen to it sometimes just to remember her. It’s been so long I don’t recognize it anymore.
I’m finally writing about this because I feel the end is imminent. I feel a sense of urgency. For what I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel, how to act. Do I start crying now? Should I hold it in until it happens? I guess I’m starting now.
Recently I thought, “I think Alex would have loved Adam Lambert. I think he would have thought he was beautiful.”
I miss my best friend Alex. I don’t think about him every day anymore, that bothered me when I realized it.
He did not think he could take life anymore and killed himself 17 years ago. I remember the day like it was yesterday, but on the other hand it shocks me sometimes when I realize he’s really not here anymore. I don’t want to write about a lot of sad things and try to extract deep emotions from you, except maybe a giggle. Alex would not have minded, he was irreverent to say the least. This was the man that dressed as a pregnant Linda Ronstadt for Halloween. Those size 13 pumps were really something to see!
Missing Alex made me realize I miss having a gay friend. I think I’ll have to go out and get one. It can’t be that hard. I am a girl after all.
I miss that sense of fun and joy that only a gay man and a straight woman can experience. I think, for me, it is finally feeling understood by a man. And for the man maybe an intimate look into femininity? Come on gay men, help me out here, what is it?
A couple of weeks ago I thought my luck had changed and I had fallen head over heels for a gay man again. Alas, it turned out he is just a nerd and a married nerd to boot. I mean from the Big Bang Theory nerd. He is a live action role playing (LARP to those of you that are in the know), War Craft on line, making swords for his outfit for the “ren” fair nerd. If shortening The Renaissance Fair is not a dead giveaway of a through and through nerd I don’t know what is. Though I am strangely fascinated with him, it’s not the same.
I’m not a spring chicken hanging out at the clubs anymore, so where does a seasoned mature woman find a man of the “musical” persuasion (Alex’s terminology, not mine)? It’s hard to meet anyone interesting when all you are doing is working with children, coming home to children, carpooling children, you get it. I can’t just walk into a gay bar and start picking up men. Or could I?
I wonder if Adam Lambert is lonely.
Having just left work, I flipped the lock button in the door of my car to unlock the hatchback to get out the snow scraper I have back there. I have unlocked and locked my doors maybe thousands of time since I’ve had my 2003 Outback. Then why did I flick it the wrong way and lock all the doors this time?
That is the main question I thought of as I went around to check each door hoping against hope that I hadn’t really done what I knew I had done. Oh, and yes, the car was running!
Inside were my phone, purse and inside my purse were my spare keys!
I tromped back to the school in my sorrel boots from 1993 through the falling snow, wind and slush. I felt the students looking at the boots and snickering.
My sorrels are the only thing left over from my five years in North Dakota (don’t ask) that I can actually appreciate. This morning I got up, took a shower and put on my regular work clothes. Then on my way to the kitchen for coffee I passed by the sliding glass door to see at least 5 inches of snow on the deck and it was still snowing. I didn’t feel like getting changed into jeans so I said “Screw it!”, and went to the garage to dig out my trusty 20 year old sorrels! Good to go.
This is not a story about my sub zero, clunky old boots by the way, although you might think it is with all my goings on about them.
I finally made it back to my desk trying to remember my daughter, Allison’s, cell phone number. I pick her up after school everyday and it is only ten minutes until her bell rings. Now if you remember I left my phone in the car, and since I live in the cell phone age I never actually have to dial a phone number. Instead I called John to see if he could run up the keys to the school. He says Tristan is home and he will. That’s good, but now how am I going to pick up Allison?
My very good friend and office colleague, Geri, offered to drive me to Allison’s school. I accepted and headed out the door with her. We got to the car and I reached in her back seat to get the snow scraper. By opening the door I inadvertently disturbed an overhang of snow that fell on my head and down my coat into my neck! I had to take my glasses off and sit in Geri’s car melting and thanking her profusely while she laughed and shook her head at my predicament.
As we pulled up to get Allison at her charter school, Geri laid on the horn (which is never done) and started to wave her arms frantically to get Allison’s attention. I do the same because she won’t recognize Geri’s car. We looked like a pair of orangutans.
We arrived back at my school just in time to see Tristan as he was arriving with the spare keys. Geri drove us back to my car, I unlocked the doors, put the car into gear, peeled out of the parking lot and drove home.
I felt compelled to write about this day not because of the series of unfortunate events, but I felt really blessed. I don’t realize often enough on a normal day what great people I have around me until I end up really needing it. I guess when I feel lonely or unloved I will remember this day. One of the days when I needed the troops and they rallied. Thank you troops!
I have a friend at work that is trying to train (is that the right word?) me on how to be a better mother to my teenage son. I have never asked her in any way or form for this help nor do I think I need it. But, she has taken me under her wing and I try to pay attention. Her son is brilliant, good looking, tall, athletic and a really nice guy. We try not to roll our eyes as we hear yet another story of his amazing bigger than life accomplishments.
I don’t know how she got the impression that my role in Tristan’s life was less than adequate. It may have started with my ADD. Yes,I have ADD ( tested and everything). Now because of that I have a very hard time staying focused for long periods of time, oh who am I fooling, for ANY period of time.
My friend’s concern started at the beginning of the school year when she asked me which classes Tristan had signed up for.
“AP Chemistry,” I would say not very confidently (you know that little “up speak” we do with the last syllable). I had been told, read his schedule, etc., but was now trying desperately to remember another class. “Spanish, uh, hmm”.
She was on to a new question, “Oh, Spanish II or III?”.
“Three,” I say enthusiastically, feeling the pressure may be off. I’m not really sure if it Spanish III, but I have to prove that I am interested in my son’s education. Then I realize she may have a way of checking on this information, she is a former Assistant Principal of the high school Tristan attends. Maybe she already knows very well what he has and she’s just screwing with me.
“Who does he have?” she asks interested. And the thing is I know she is being sincere. She doesn’t see me as the bug under the microscope that I feel like.
“I would have to check his schedule, I can’t remember,” I mutter uncomfortably. I actually went so far as to print out his schedule and keep it on my desk in case she asked again, which she didn’t.
Every morning she checks in with me and asks me if I’ve checked the paper to see if Tristan has been mentioned in the sports section. He’s in soccer and they are having a really good season.
“ You’ve got to start a scrapbook. I did with Brett.”
A scrapbook? A scrapbook? I have photos from 1998 still sitting waiting to be put into an album. My granddaughter will be 3 years old before I hang her 3 month old photos and she wants me to start a scrapbook? I said she was a friend, I never said we were close.
“I don’t get the paper,” I say apologetically.
“Oh, you’ll have to get the paper, he’ll be in it all the time and you’ll want to cut out the articles for his scrapbook!”
My compliance in this matter has become a slippery slope.
The next day she brought me a “One Month Free” coupon for the Herald.
anincidentallife.com 