Thursday, November 4. Lisa died yesterday. I go to her house, drive through the rain across town, a fog in my brain. This isn’t really happening. I am not driving across town to my friend’s house because she is dead.
But she is. I decide it is my mission to help her family find important documents. I can go through files, I can dig around in her computer, and on her phone. I know how to do these things, and so I do. Her family and another friend are at the house too. We clean out her refrigerator and I take some fresh food. She will not be back to eat it, but this act is not enough to make this thing feel real.
In shock, we all do strange things. One family member sees a basket of old Christmas cards in the corner, and declares that we can throw it away. Lisa has been dead for one day. There is so much to be done to wrap up a lifetime of earthly possessions. The Christmas cards can wait. To save them from the family member, I take responsibility for them. I dump them into a plastic bag, put them in my car. Later I move them to my living room. Still later I move them to my office in the spare bedroom.
December 28. I look in the bag. It is after Christmas, and I am cleaning out my office of Christmas-y things. I am preparing packages to mail, and these include some of Lisa’s things that I promised mutual friends I would send to them. A beloved book. A few Notre Dame T-shirts. And here is this bag of Christmas cards that has been sitting quietly on the shelf, reminding me every day that I still have so much grieving ahead of me.
Finally, I face the bag. I pull things out one by one. There is a faint notion of eavesdropping, this reading of someone else’s mail – mail that is treasured enough to live in a special basket for years. Turns out it’s not just Christmas cards – most kept in their envelopes, even – but birthday cards, too, and notes of support and congratulations. What I saved is a basket of correspondence that meant something to Lisa.
I sit here and look at every card and letter in this bag. Some make me smile and even laugh out loud. We had many mutual friends, and I know many of her family members. She even kept cards from her insurance agent and her realtor.
Going through the pile doesn’t make Lisa’s absence feel more real. Is it time that has done it, and the fact that the cards only go up to 2010. There should be a large number from 2011. I’m sure there probably are people who haven’t heard about Lisa’s passing who did send cards to her empty house. But time, that devil and saint, has brought with it the absence of phone calls and visits and hugs and laughter and good times shared with my family and her family and just between the two of us. That’s what makes it feel real. Still, it is this task now that makes me weep fresh tears today.
The birthday cards from 2009 and 2010 are the ones that set me off, so full of hope and atta-girls for Lisa’s recent accomplishments. Here is what was printed on one, from her aunt and uncle:
All our lives we’re taught to worry about getting older,as though life has some secret schedule for us to keep. But there’s no magical age for being our BEST, no deadline for dreaming, taking risks, being fully alive.
On your birthday, take time to look forward to all life’s possibilities and all you have yet to see, to do, to be.
And this, which was of course, funny at the time:
Inside: We bitches live forever
As a sentimental person and as one of Lisa’s best friends, I consider it my duty to honor this little collection of love that she kept, at least by writing about it, so that it’s not just me and Lisa who knew it existed.
It existed. She loved her family and friends, who are all represented in this pile.
She existed. That matters.
Enjoy reading the cards… She did matter! Since her death, there is not a day which goes by that I don’t think of Lisa. Take care of yourself.
Hang in there, Kimmy. I love you! me.
Beautiful.
Thanks for writing about things like this. It keeps Lisa alive for us – not that I need much help for that – different random memories pop up all the time now. And as a result of her being gone much too soon and so unexpectedly, I am making more of an effort with those who I care about and are still here. A sign she continues to matter. The silver lining in this horrible mess???
She matters because she loved and was loved and in the end that’s all there is. You are an extraordinary friend.
PS Notice I am commenting on your blog and not in Facebook, per your NY Resolution. 🙂
I am glad she kept our card. I kept hers. She could not catch up with us in la in July, so she was going to come here one day. It was her turn. And now it’s too late. I think of our times in nd and what a good friend she was. I realise now more than ever how short life is and how we need to treasure and use it. Thanks Kim for all your care in what must be such a sorrowful time. And I am posting on your blog, not Facebook:)
You are a wonderful friend to her. Perhaps one day you might want to send the cards here: http://www.stjudesranch.org/shop/recycled-card-program/ or someplace like it.
My late husband saved these sort of things. After his passing, when I finally got around to sorting through the endless boxes of presumed “books” we’d stored and hauled from home to home, I found all sorts of saved letters and cards from friends and family members. It was 30+ years of them. I stacked them into piles and, when ready, mailed them back to their senders. Of course, mine were in the pile too. I still treasure them. It’s been nearly 5 years. He didn’t really have a time to fight. The cancer took us by surprised and then him 23 days later (after we told the kids that they MD said he had 1 year to live, and about a week before he died). We still grieve…but we live too. I wish you and her friends and family much remembrance, love, and healing. Reach out for support when you need it. People will help. Love your friends and family as much as you can, and live life as fully as your dear friend Lisa did (as you describe her). Cry as much and often as you need to. You’ll make her proud.