For Lisa, my dearest friend. A friend of 32 years. We met in 6th grade, and minus a few bumps and bruises through middle school, high school and college, we were inseparable. Lisa was a diabetic, a diabetic of the most brittle variety. Her list of auto-immune illnesses that have spawned from the diabetes would fill volumes of medical journals. She lived in constant pain for more than half of her life.
But no more.
On Sunday, May 25, 2008 in the hour of 2 am, my dear precious, beautiful Lisa went home. No more pain. No more meds. No more suffering. No more insulin. She’s free.
We who are left, however?
We are completely lost. Vacant. Hollow. Numb. The hole she leaves in our lives is gargantuan and we’ve all been walking around in its vacuum wandering what to do. How to think. How to function.
It was sudden. No one ever expected that. She stopped fighting. No one blames her for that. She died with a surgical team surrounding her, shouting out orders, “running a code.” Just as she’s done for so many others the past 21 years as a crucial care nurse.
She said she’d never be put on dialysis. She wasn’t. Would never stop working with patients. She didn’t. Would never wholly depend on her family. She remained independent. She had control of so little of her life, but her death?
She had it by the balls.
These are some of the letters I’ve written her since her death. One week after her death, my daughter graduated from high school. That fall, she began college and her brother entered high school. Many transitions have been going on around me, and this is where I escape to mourn. To celebrate. To grieve. To remember.
While these letters are to Lisa and Lisa only, I hope that they can be of comfort to others who have gone through the loss of part of their heart.
May we all find peace in our memories of loved ones gone before.
Recent Comments