Sheona

When I hit my late 20s about 10 years ago, I figured I was pretty much "full up" as far as friends were concerned.

I was lucky enough to be surrounded by a ton of interesting people who I had known since practically forever and with whom I barely had time to keep up friendships. I was busy, really busy, and I just didn't have the time nor the inclination to invest in a brand new friendship.

And then I met her.

It was at a keg party of all places. An affair to which Rob - my then newish boyfriend - dragged me. We were surprised to arrive and find a house overflowing with hundreds of debacherous teenagers and when he got lost in the crowd I gravitated towards a woman closer to my own age who seemed similarly bemused at the attention we attracted from boys a decade our junior.

Sheona was a colleague of Rob's - a set script supervisor - and after a few drinks we let our inner cougars roar and formed a bond that I have come to cherish as one of the most important in my life.

Here's the thing about friends you meet later in life: they love you for the person you are, not the person you were. There is no comforting common history and no sense of obligation. There is simply chemistry and a sense that no matter how busy you are, you must fit this person into your life because they were sent to make your life better...to make you better.

And so Sheona was. And has.

Sheona has inspired me to dream and to dream big. She is a mother. She is a partner. She is a maker of beautiful, important films that celebrate life and loss. When I spend time with her I come away invigorated, renewed, filled with the sense of my own strength and possibility.

Sheona helped me through endless rewrites of my film script and sat proudly through its premiere. She celebrated with me when I married, mourned when I learned I might never have a child and celebrated again when Graham made his debut.

Her daughter's birthday party was the first one Graham ever attended and when I read the eulogy at my mother-in-law's wake it was her face in the crowd that steadied me and gave me the strength to continue.

Sheona moved 3,000 miles away from me last week and I don't know what I'm going to do without her.

She has been my rock these past several months. I have literally cried on her shoulder and she has fortified me with her wise words and the gentle, pragmatic way she has of looking at the world.

She and her actor partner are off for greener pastures on another coast and as much as I know we will always be friends, I am still bereft over the distance that geography will inevitably create between us.

Godspeed Sheona.

Thank you for being my friend and for making my life better. Thank you for teaching me that one's life can never be too full to accommodate a kindred spirit.

Reconnecting with Grace

I had not had any meaningful contact with Grace for almost 10 years when I picked up a message from my university alumni office about two and a half years ago.

My old journalism school roommate was trying to track me down. Could they forward my contact information to her?

Of course they could! I called back right away, excited that Grace had taken the initiative to reconnect, something I had been meaning to do forever. I left a message and asked for a return call so I could get Grace's details as well.

I never heard back, from Grace or from the alumni association, and after a few weeks of happy anticipation, the idea of reconnecting got pushed to the back of my mind once again, filed away on the list of things that I absolutely would get around to, one of these days.

Until last night.

I was playing idly on the computer and Grace's face popped into my mind. This time, instead of just thinking "I really must look her up" I typed her name into a search engine and waited, happy and pleased that I was finally following through on something that had been nagging around the edges of my psyche for so long.

The first link I opened was her obituary.

My former roommate and dear friend died almost exactly two years ago after a painful battle with Lupus. The disease struck in 2002 when her first and only child - a son - was 10 months old. It included serious muscle inflammation and weakness that within months saw her hospitalized and essentially a quadriplegic.

Grace fought tooth and nail to recover and reclaim her life, I read. In 2003 she published a book about her struggle with chronic illness, dependence and her experience as a patient. In 2006, just months after she attempted to contact me, she succumbed to the disease and a myriad of resultant medical problems.

She was 37.

And so, after crying my eyes out for a little while I did the only thing I felt I could do: I bought her book.

It's due to arrive in 5-7 business days and when it does I will curl up with it on the couch. And through my tears I will finally stop putting off what I have been meaning to do forever, though I will do it in a manner I never, ever expected.

I will reconnect with Grace.

Say hello to my imaginary friends

According to my husband I spend a lot of time with my imaginary friends.

You know, the ones I meet on the computer; the ones he fears may actually be depraved serial killers who live in their parents' basements and plot our demise, as opposed to warm and welcoming mothers (and fathers) who live lives similar to ours and genuinely care about us and our family.

He worries, he really does.

So Rob? This one's for you...

This photo was taken at a fabulous Mommy Bloggers dinner last night. (Thank you Johnson and Johnson). That's Catherine (and her camera shy boy Jasper) to the left of me. I sat beside her on the plane ride out to San Francisco in July and we didn't stop gabbing the whole time.

Huddling in front there is Katie, the girl in whom I've confided a fair bit over the past year because she has faced some problems similar to what we've faced. It's been quite a comfort because she gets it, you know?

Beside me, on the right is Karen. Remember we ran into her at that fall fair a few weeks ago and she recognized you first even though she'd never met either of us face to face? Anyway, I've been trying to meet up with her for months because I just knew we would click: I was right.

Finally on the far right is Chareen. She knows our sister-in-law LeeAnne (who writes recipes for me here) and has even tried her incredible squash soup, the recipe for which I keep meaning to post. They often freelance for the same magazine and she was at a party a few weeks ago where our niece Cailey played with her daughter the whole time.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say, to my husband and to anyone else who questions whether it's possible to forge real relationships with people you meet on the Internet is...yes.

Yes, it is possible, probable even. Because yes, the people you meet through blogging are real people. Yes, they have kids and jobs and husbands and joys and sorrows and stress that is similar to your own. Yes, they care about you and your family, just as you care about theirs.

And no, none of the ladies pictured are actually depraved serial killers.

At least, I don't think they are.

Friendship

The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.

Amazing grace

Rob and I dined with grace personified on Saturday.

We had dinner with Doreen and Keith, the parents of my late friend Julie. Since Julie’s death 13 years ago, we have made an annual tradition of dinner in her favorite restaurant on her birthday, though a monster snowstorm postponed our plans a few weeks this year.

Doreen and Keith represent everything I want to be, as well as everything I fear.

They have endured the death of their child and sometimes to be in their presence and to contemplate that is terrifying.

Because no one really talks about the fear that is born along with a baby. No one explains that once you have a child, you are condemned to live every single day with the cold, hard fear that you could one day lose that child. You push the fear away as best you can, of course, yet it is always there, lurking behind every happy moment, shading every hopeful thought.

Julie’s parents were forced to look that fear full in the face. They did not beat the odds, the odds beat them. I have written about the role I believe luck plays in the health and well-being of our children: I feel guilt-ridden sometimes celebrating my good luck knowing that theirs has been so unspeakably bad.

And yet Doreen and Keith have shown me that it is possible to endure the death of a child and to do so with grace, dignity and an appreciation for the beauty and pleasure that life can still offer.

They have traveled the world, separately and apart. Doreen has visited Nepal and listened to the Dali Lama speak in India. Keith has crazy stories about business dealings in China and the Middle East. They have white-water rafted down the Kannanaskis River in the Rockies and searched out the best crème brule in Paris.

They regularly entertain a wide circle of friends from all walks of life. They speak passionately of politics and social ills and human rights. They are compassionate and articulate and interesting and funny.

Doreen and Keith know more about pain and loss than most of us can imagine, but they have never once struck me as bitter. They seem to have taken their private anguish and used it as a means to strengthen their connection with, and empathy for, others.

The more time I spend with Doreen and Keith, the more I understand how it came to be that Julie was such a remarkable person. And as each year passes and my friendship with her parents grows deeper, I imagine that Julie has orchestrated our dependence on each other, watching and making sure that we each provide the other with what we all need most in her absence.

To Doreen and Keith, I imagine I provide a link to their daughter and a fresh perspective on her life.

To me, they provide proof positive that even the manifestation of someone’s worst fear is no match for the magnificence and the resilience of the human spirit.

Bloggy Bling

Where would a diva be without her peeps?

I love each and every one of you.

Mwah, mwah, mwah!

From MommyK at Great Walls of Baltimore.




From Kat at My Two Cents.




From Dawn at Renaissance Mama.




From Amy at Memories and Musings.






From OHMommy at Classy Chaos.





From GoMommy at Randon Acts of Momness

From Corey at Living and Loving Every Minute of It.

From Manners and M oxie

From Rachel at From The Land of Monkeys and Princesses

From Kim over at Jogging in Circles.

From the lovely C over at Random Thoughts and Musings From the Island.

From Brittany over at Mommee and Her Boys and Amy over at Memories and Musings.

From Karen over at A Day in The Life

From Jennwa over at Ramblings of a Crazy Woman.

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Save your sympathy sweetie

Our waitress couldn’t have been more than 19 years old.

Kim and I were at the least objectionable of the three licensed restaurants at a suburban mall, chosen because it had lots of parking and was equal driving distance for both of us.

The server’s hair was perfect, her thick makeup expertly applied. She was bubbly and enthusiastic – too bubbly and enthusiastic. Her forced cheer made it clear she had us pegged.

Oh God, a couple of moms on the town - poor things. This must be a big night out for them. Better not let them sense my pity or they’ll start acting bitchy.

And I looked across the table at Kim, who I first met almost a dozen years ago when she was a 21-year cocktail waitress and I was bartending at the infamous nightspot in our home town. And something unspoken passed between us.

Kim knew what I wanted to say.

I wanted to say that my best friend and I hadn’t always hemmed and hawed before deciding it would be okay to split a half litre of wine. That we hadn’t always stopped to consider whether a fried appetizer would wreak havoc on our stomachs.

I wanted to say that ten years ago we would have been cracking wise about music and clothes and flirting with the hotties at the bar, not hauling our kids’ pictures out of our wallets and telling story after story about the funny things they said.

I wanted to say that 10 years ago we wouldn’t have planned this night weeks in advance and we wouldn’t have been caught dead in this cheesy bar, in this cheesy mall, no matter how convenient and plentiful its parking.

I wanted to say that 10 years ago I would never have glanced at my watch and winced to see that it was already 9:45 p.m.

But I didn’t say anything. Neither did Kim.

We just smiled at each other. Happy, secure, amused.

Because our waitress couldn’t have been more than 19 years old.

And she couldn’t possibly know that the middle-aged moms splitting an appetizer and a half litre of wine would have given her pert, little ass a run for its money in their day.

Julie and me

We had big dreams, Julie and I.

She was going to be an Oscar-winning actress and I was going to be famous the world over for writing that would make people laugh with joy and weep with empathy.

Instead I today mark the 13th anniversary of her death by trying, in this humble space, to use my words to pay some kind of tribute to her and to our friendship.

Julie and I met nearly 20 years ago in my first year of university. I was in full party mode, enjoying a concert by a band I can’t remember, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and there stood a tiny, doll-like girl with a big, tipsy smile.

“I’m ever so short,” she said. (Really). “I can’t see the band. Help me out?”

She gestured to my shoulder and I burst out laughing at her audacity. When I regained my composure I stooped down and up she hopped. We were pretty much inseparable from that moment on.

I don’t know exactly how tall Julie was. Four feet, ten inches maybe? Four feet eleven? Surely not five feet. She never discussed it so I’m not sure how I came to understand that her growth had been stunted by treatments she endured to successfully fight leukemia as a toddler.

No matter. What Julie lacked in stature she made up for in attitude. She was startling beautiful and she knew it. She turned heads wherever she went. She would insult you in the most outrageous fashion and then charm you a second later with a conspiratorial wink and a flip of her hair.

We had a shtick, Julie and I. She was drool and I was goofy. I told corny jokes and she made cutting observations. We were partners in crime, kindred spirits, two peas in a pod. We got each other.

A few years after graduation Julie moved Los Angeles to pursue her acting career. I took a road trip to visit and fell in love with Arizona on my way through. I moved there not long after and we visited between Scottsdale and Los Angeles regularly.

What a heady time! She acted bit parts and I worked as a freelance writer. Drunk with youth and possibility, we attacked the world the only way we knew how – full tilt. We narrowly avoided a dust-up with a member of Faster Pussycat at Whiskey a Go-Go. We danced on the tables at a sushi restaurant in Venice. We traded jokes and insults behind the microphone at a house party we crashed in West Hollywood.

Superbowl weekend rolled around. Julie had vague plans to visit me in Arizona. I didn’t hear from her, but wasn’t overly concerned. Then her mother called in the early evening.

“I’m in Los Angeles dear,” she said. “With Julie. She’s dying. She’s asking to see you. You better come right away”

I have often tried, during the last 12 years, to recreate how I felt to hear those words. When the picture I carry of her in my head gets blurry or I can’t quite hear her voice, I force myself back into that dark moment, hoping, I guess, that fresh pain will somehow make her seem less distant.

And so I drove, tears streaming down my face, across the desert in the middle of the night. I remember the moonlight on the palm trees and the warm wind and the feeling that surely I must just be playing a part in some cheesy movie of the week – the kind Julie would eviscerate with one pithy blow.

But it wasn’t a movie of course. Julie had visited the doctor just a few weeks earlier about a nagging cough, which was, it turned out, symptomatic of imminent heart and lung failure. Her respiratory system had been compromised by the very treatments that had saved her life all those years ago.

I got to the hospital and went in to see her right away. I remember thinking how glamorous and beautiful she looked laying there, her hair artfully fanned out around her pillow: a tiny, perfect doll.

“Tell me a joke,” she said. And, because she asked me to, I blinked back my tears and did just that. Then I told her I loved her. She smiled like Cleopatra on the Nile. Of course I did.

One after another, the people who loved her filed in to say goodbye. Her parents went last and came out an hour or so later. She was gone, they said.

Julie was gone.

Afterwards I went to a Denny’s on Sunset Blvd and ate pancakes and drank Irish coffee and cried. It seemed fitting somehow and I lingered, knowing Julie would revel in the curious glances I drew with my smeared eyeliner, disheveled hair and tragic demeanor.

Some days I can’t believe that how much the world has changed since Julie was in it. How can it be that Pulp Fiction was the last movie that she saw? That she never got to make fun of Paris Hilton or weigh in on reality television. That September 11th was remarkable to her only because it’s my birthday?

I carried Julie’s lace handkerchief down the aisle with me on my wedding day. And on her birthday every year her parents treat me to dinner at her favorite restaurant. But I feel her loss most keenly at times when her memory sneaks up on me. Like on my 30th birthday when I couldn’t stop crying because it didn’t seem fair that I got to turn 30 and she didn’t.

There are so many, many things that Julie didn’t get to do and even as my life moves happily forward, I am haunted by each and every one of them.

Because we had big dreams, Julie and I.