Look at this woman.
This is a picture of Lisa taken last year at her first triathlon. She kicked cancer in the ass and then did a triathlon to say “Suck it, cancer!” And then she did it AGAIN.
And she was doing great. She was training for her first half-marathon and raising money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma society on the way. She had all kinds of healthy running buddies. She traveled to Alaska. She made her own curtains. She was developing a cookbook based on the dishes she created using a Himalayan salt block. She was back at work, saving babies and creating an infrastructural database of premature baby complications that would make the world better.
She made the world better. And I’m writing this now because she is gone.
On Thursday afternoon I got a phone call that I wanted the caller to immediately take back. I wanted the phone to unring. Just that tiny amount of time – before the phone call and after – is enough to change a person’s entire life.
Lisa had gone to bed on Wednesday night and didn’t get up again. She had been healthy and happy, and then she died.
Since Thursday afternoon I have been spreading the word to our mutual friends using the phone, facebook, and texting.
I spent yesterday with her family and another close friend, continuing to notify friends and colleagues and also going through Lisa’s house and her computer looking for the important documents that will make wrapping up her earthly life a little bit less chaotic. But dude. Nobody at age 40 knows this is going to happen, so those documents weren’t necessarily located in obvious places. By midafternoon, my head hurt and I wanted a nap and a drink and I just felt like calling her or texting her to say WHERE THE EFF DID YOU PUT YOUR IMPORTANT PAPERS?!
I had a whole imaginary text conversation in my head with Lisa, in which she told me that her foot doesn’t hurt anymore, in Heaven you automatically know how to fly, but you have to take lessons to learn salsa dancing. And the truffles and coffee are truly to die for.
Lisa’s Facebook page blew up yesterday. The girl is huge. There were 350 messages of grief and love up there by last night, and the Twitterverse has been spreading the word and using the link to her fundraising page. She’s huge on the internet, and it sucks that all of that happened after she died. But I guess our gadgets and our social media give us more ways to cope with loss, by creating a worldwide virtual group hug where we can cry alone but know that we aren’t really alone. This one amazing person was the hub at the center of a wonderful wheel.
I had her phone and computer at my disposal yesterday, looking up phone numbers of far-flung friends and canceling her upcoming appointments. I kept wanting to actually send that text. But if she texted me back, then I would have really lost it.
Services for Lisa Kelly will be held Thursday – Friday, November 10 – 11. Please contact me if you are a local friend and you want to join us in our tribute to her.
(sob)
I was thinking about her yesterday, and how people always say “rest in peace” when someone dies, but that wouldn’t do for Lisa. For Lisa it should be “run in peace.” I love to think of her that way. Sprinting everywhere there is to go and see and do, pain free.
Shock. Shock, shock, shock.
We’ll see you next week.
xoxo
LIke Jessica said, I think of Lisa running, and running with her exuberance for life. Thank you for putting into words the shock and disbelief we are feeling.
Kim,
I’m so sorry to hear about your friend. Given the outpouring of messages, etc., she was obviously an incredible person. I wish I had known her…
xxooJ
I didn’t know her, but I can’t stop crying. What an amazing person. Two of my children’s doctors worked with her. It such a devastating loss, and I’m so sorry she is gone Kim.
My condolences to you, her family, and all who’s lives she touched. FB wasn’t as big when my husband passed, but the outpouring of comments to my and my (8 years old at the time) son’s blog was phenomenal. Who knew he was so loved? I think he had no idea…and that’s a shame.
Great post, loved the text conversation and I’m sure Lisa does, too.
I’ve known Lisa for a mere fraction of the time you’ve known her, but my feelings are the same. Still half-expecting to get a text from her to express regret over that dessert we split.
Heartbroken. I really wish I could attend next week, but I’ll be out of town next Thursday and Friday. Perhaps there will be something at work as well.
It hurts just to read this. It’s so hard to lose someone so suddenly, especially someone who sounds like she was so full of life. I’m sorry for your loss.
I’m so sorry for your tragic loss. It’s hard to make sense of life when things like this happen.
so sorry to hear this. My thoughts and prayers are with you Kim. If she was a friend of yours – I know she was a cool chick.
i worked with Lisa @ CHLA. I have known her as long I have been a nurse (7 years) and she was among the attending MDs that I learned from; she has helped shape me into the nurse I am today. I was privileged to get to know her outside of work, thru our mutual love of college football. Shock does not even begin to encapsulate all the emotions I have in trying to cope with the loss of the truly remarkable human being. Lisa, you have inspired me to train for a half-marathon. It has been a gift and a blessing to know you and you have enriched my life. There are no words to express my deepest sympathy to those of us who knew you.
Sometimes I come to this blog and re-read this text message and imagine Lisa actually sent it to you. It helps me remember that we are the ones left behind, that she’s moved on to the next adventure and we are here, missing her. That she is fine and we can be too. Then I usually cry.
Kim, I’m so sorry for your enormous loss. I love your idea of texts from heaven though. What an amazing friendship you must have had. Lisa sounds like an incredible person, and fighter, and friend.
Thank, you Leslie. Steve Jobs died not long after (or was it before) and our friends have joked that it would be awesome of him to figure out a way to make that real.
I am so sorry. I lost my best friend to cancer in November 2009. There is no way to prepare for that loss, no way to grieve but to push and slog and cry and yell and keep going through it. Wishing you comfort and peace and you walk that path I’ve walked, and that I wish for no one.