We Talked on Friday

This is not the blog I was supposed to write. My original plan was to write a two-for-one on fathers in honor of Father’s Day. But life changed the trajectory of my plans.

I sit here as the rain beats against the window pane in perfect sync with the pain piercing my heart. 

We talked on Friday; he sounded fine.

It was like any other weekend. I had a laundry list of things to do —retirement party, day out with my girls, writing class, dance class, selling books and as life would have it—unexpected things happened, too. One of my former students passed away, so I went to the wake on Friday after leaving the retirement party. On the way home, I called my friend Charleston but couldn’t reach him.

Regardless of what my mind says, my body says rest on Friday. I can rip and run the rest of the week, but by body demands I rest on Friday. I was obeying my body when the phone rang. It was Charleston calling me back. We met when I was 15, and it seemed like we had known each other forever. There was always a Commodores easy-like-Sunday morning-ness between us.

We had not spoken in years, but had recently reconnected a few months ago and fell into the groove that had always been us. He thought I was out and about because when we talk, a lot of times I’m in my car. He laughed when I told him I was at home. He was always teasing that he needed some of my energy.

We talked for a long time about everything and nothing. We laughed and reminisced. No matter how much time had passed, we always managed to pick up right where we left off. That’s a rarity to be treasured. We leave people behind, and they us in our evolution. 

We talked Friday; he sounded fine.

His parting words as our conversation ended were, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Saturday came and went. We didn’t speak, but that was not unusual. We didn’t talk or text every day. Sunday I was trying to get ready for the book selling event. It crossed my mind to send Charleston a “Happy Father’s Day” text as a joke. Like me, he didn’t have any children. I got busy and as easily as it crossed my mind, it slipped my mind. I thought about him a couple of times throughout the day, I’d sometimes think back on something we said, so that wasn’t unusual either. I was trying to sell books, so I stayed focused on the task at hand. I knew it would be late when I left, and he was an early riser so I figured we’d talk or text on Monday like we had been doing. 

We talked Friday; he sounded fine.

I had loaned my sister my car. She picked me up and drove home. I unlocked my phone and had a notification that my Charleston had been tagged in a photo. I clicked on it. It was a photo of him and a message stating that he had died earlier. I shook my head in disbelief. I told my sister my friend died and we had just recently spoken. I said it, but I didn’t believe it. He wasn’t on Facebook that much but I went to his page anyway--my heart thumping. More R.I.P., R.I.H. messages.

We talked Friday; he sounded fine.

I know that tomorrow is not promised to us, but the truth of this is sometimes cruel. My emotions are all over the place and instead of fighting with them; I’m forcing myself to sit with them. I sit with my anger: I want to know why him? Why now? I sit with my guilt: Why didn’t I text when I thought about him? Would it have made a difference? Did I miss something in the times we spoke? I sit with my sadness: The broken promise that he’ll never call me tomorrow. And through my tears I sit with my happiness: we shared a life time of memories, and we reconnected even for a short while. I can cherish that.

We talked Friday; he sounded fine. He died of a heart attack on Sunday. I write this on Monday as I grapple with the grief of losing a dear friend. 

Charleston Lee. Gone, but never forgotten.

Maya & Oprah, Carmen & Me

I was on my way to work listening to the Tom Joyner Morning Show when I heard them announce that Maya Angelou had passed away. When I got to work I immediately logged onto my computer to confirm that one of our icons had indeed fallen.

 

Though I knew that she was 86 and had truly lived an exceptional life, it just didn’t feel like she should be gone. I found myself in a place that I thought I had left—a surreal existence of trying to deal with something that I didn’t want to be real. I looked up at my bulletin board in the hall entitled Phenomenal Woman and I was reminded of the work my students had done creating poems on great women in history, and the fact that we’d used Dr. Angelou’s poem to kick off our lesson.

Born in to poverty and segregation, Maya Angelou born Marguerite Johnson, epitomized the American dream. She faced many struggles in her life, but she never let anything stop her. She was the true definition of a Renaissance Woman. She acted. She directed. She sang. She danced. And she wrote. Not only was she an artist, she was also an activist. Maya Angelou was an African-American woman in a country that did not treat those who of her race or gender well. And even though she spoke out against injustices, she was not bitter. She looked for the lesson in every experience.

Maya Angelou was many things to many people, and as I read the various reflections on the life she led, the words of Oprah Winfrey resonated with me the most. Not only did her words eloquently capture the essence of their relationship, it flooded me with memories of my friend who recently passed away. Like Maya, Carmen faced many struggles that she didn’t let stop her. When life handed her lemons, she didn’t complain. She made lemonade. Ten years my senior, our friendship spanned more than two decades.  Just like Maya was to Oprah, Carmen “was there for me always guiding me through some of the most important years of my life.” 

Carmen was not a celebrity in the sense of the word as we know it, but she was well known in the circles that she traveled in and she affected everyone around her. Oprah said what stood out to her the most was not what Maya Angelou had done or written or spoken, but how she lived her life. How she lived her life. Those words jumped out at me because like Maya Angelou, Carmen lived life on her own terms. She never compromised who she was, and she was one of the most selfless people I’d ever met. It was one of many things that I admired about her.

I never had the opportunity to meet Maya Angelou in person, but I read her work; I watched her in interviews and I learned from her as she was an exceptional teacher. Carmen and I were colleagues, friends, and confidantes to each other. I learned from her as well even when I was a reluctant student. She died in March and I miss her every day. She may not have had the far reaching influence of a Maya Angelou, but she touched a lot of lives. Today the world is a darker place because their lights no longer shine. Like Maya is to Oprah, Carmen will always be to me—“the rainbow in my clouds.”

When a Friend Dies

A stranger stabs you in the front; a friend stabs you in the back; a boyfriend stabs you in the heart, but best friends only poke each other with straws.

- Unknown

In July of last year, my friend Carmen and I were scheduled to take a trip to Canada. It was a literary retreat where we would have an opportunity to meet other nerdy women who loved to read, meet the authors and do some sight-seeing. Carmen was always on the move. So, when she told me two days before that she was going to cancel, I knew that something was wrong. She had been sick on and off and had been to the Emergency Room a few times, but the doctors told her she had fibroids and needed to see a physician about surgery.

So, I went to Canada alone. But I was worried. Carmen had an exceptionally high tolerance for pain so the fact that she was complaining made me think something serious was going on. I kept calling her from Canada and she told me to stop calling her. I told her she couldn’t tell me what to do. She told me she was having surgery on Monday. I was due back on Monday. She was in the hospital and my sister had taken my mother to the ER twice in the few days that I was gone. I felt helpless, but there was nothing I could do.

When I got home Monday, I received a text from Carmen’s sister. Carmen had an advanced stage cancer even though she had, had a biopsy in late May or early June and tested negative. How could this happen? The next day I went to the hospital, and I was there when the ventilator was removed, but I was gone by the time the doctors gave her, diagnosis. She teased me that she was surprised that I had held it in because I was such a girl—her time for anyone that cried.

I was scared for my friend, but I thought if there is anyone that can bounce back from this it was Carmen. In the 20 plus years we had been friends I’d watch her bounce back from two hip replacements and then start competing in short distance triathlons. She had to have the same knee replaced twice!-and she completed a 5K. When the first knee replacement went bad, she was upset. She got the news the same day I sliced my hand open on the first day of a new job trying to open some mustard. When I sent her picture of my hand with stitches in it, she said that made her day. That’s the way we were with each other—always laughing and joking, but always, always in each others corner.

When she was going through chemo she said she didn’t want to talk to people when she was feeling bad, and so I respected that and checked in with her sister and stepdaughters. When she was up for it, we would laugh and tease each other like always. Money exchanged hands a lot between us and we never knew who owed who. When she was sick, she told me she owed me money, but because she was sick, she didn’t have to pay me back. 

Our lives were indelibly intertwined. We were colleagues, triathlon training buddies, traveling companions and confidantes to each other.  In the middle of March, I found out that the chemo wasn’t working and the hospice team was going to be called in. I remember getting my faced made up for the belly dance show and talking to her sister about a farewell party.  It was Saturday, and I had just seen her the day before in the hospital. When I walked in the room, she looked up and said, “Hey Ninja Turtle Head,” a nickname that she gave me because she said I have a small head. We talked before she drifted off to sleep. She was discharged on Saturday and dead on Tuesday. When I got the call, I didn’t know what to do. I thought it was some cruel joke. She had been through so much, and I just knew she’d make it through, but she didn’t. 

I am still trying to process her death. I know that the ache of her absence will lessen over time, but for now there is huge void in my life. What sustains me is the legacy she left behind. In her short time on this earth, I can honestly say that Carmen was a humanitarian in the truest sense of the word. She was compassionate, caring and selfless person. She was the epitome of unconditional love. In my reflections and remembering, here are some lessons I gleaned from her life. Remembering the person that she was and following in her footsteps allows her spirit to live on. This is what learned:

1. Give back--find something that you believe in and donate your time money or both. Find someone in need and off him or her helping hand.
2. Be adventurous--do what you've never done; do something you've always wanted to do but have been afraid. Now's the time.
3. Be silly-- laugh at yourself. Laugh at life. Have fun!
4. Stand on what you believe in and don't compromise the morals and values that guide you.
5. And when life hands you lemons, make lemonade!
I greatly miss my friend, but I have a friendship of 20 plus years to sustain me. And those memories-- there are many-- will get me through the bad days.

The Lost Earring

               I love earrings. I wear my hair cropped close so the right earrings accentuate my face. I take my time buying earrings that are right for me, and with anything else, of course I end up liking some better than others. They grow on me because they end up being a good fit for my style.  I had a pair that I was especially fond of for no other reason than seem to add something a little extra.  They were silver and shaped like daisies. They became my go-to earrings; I wore them frequently.

               One day, I came home from being out and about and discovered that the earring had slipped from my ear; I had lost it. I had been a few places so there was no way to retrace my steps and find my earring. I'd lost earrings before--many times. No big deal, or so I though. But this one bothered me.  I hadn’t worked out that day so there was no reason for me to take them out, and I know I put them both in before I left that morning. Did I forget to secure it with an earring back? Why was I lamenting the loss of this one earring? I was puzzled until I dug deeper into my subconscious.

               The more I thought about the earring, the more it reminded me of lost relationships.  I thought about the people I continue to reach out to, but my texts and phone calls go unreturned.
  As unsettling as it is, I know I need to let go of what’s already gone.  I’ve spent too much time trying to figure out when the other one fell out. Did it slip away when I wasn't looking? Had the back fallen off long time ago and I just wasn't paying attention?  At this point, does it even matter?

             I am one of those people who hold onto things long after their expiration date. And while I logically know that everything changes, I'm not always willing to embrace change until I'm ready. But change happens with our without permission. When I took inventory, I realized that I have a few earrings in my jewerly box without a partner. I’m still holding onto them thinking that one day the mate will reappear. It’s kind of silly to have these random earrings unless I’m going to start a trend of wearing mismatched earrings. But I know that’s not my sense of style. For me, earrings work best in a pair;  I need two to make it work.  While I have come to the realization that there are some relationships in my life that are not working because half of the pair is missing, I’ve also checked to see if I am half of the missing pair in other relationships. Is someone looking for me, and I’ve slipped away? Do I need to check myself and find my way back?

             I have a compartment full of single earrings that I don’t know what to do with, so this weekend I'm lovingly tossing out the mis-matched earrings.  No more taking up precious space in the compartment of my life when they no longer have a purpose. Recognizing that they aren’t useful to me now, doesn’t de-value the role they played when they were part of a perfect pair. They added value at that time. And for that I am forever thankful. They're gone, but not forgotten. It’s time to move on.   There are new earrings to buy and new memories to create. The time in my life for something new, is past due.