I’ve always known that “people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.” Before social media and memes, there were autograph books and high school years books filled with awkward heartfelt, teenage quotes/sayings that were deep and profound. That one I used a lot, usually followed by something cringe, like “you’re my lifetime friend” with love hearts or stars.
As the decades have rolled by though, I have really really felt that one cut deeply. Especially when you glide through parts of your life thinking someone is in your life for your lifetime but it turns out to be only a reason – turns out those two are easy to confuse sometimes.
And some you recognize that it will only be a season, but you just aren’t prepared for their untimely exit. Nancy was that person for me.
Like a favorite older sister or cool aunt, she was there for me, unflinching and solid, as I was going through very difficult things, which is when you most definitely need someone to lean on. I had been leaning on people that said they were lean-worthy, but my vision was blurry and the people I was leaning on were only pretending to be my friends for their own gain. Yeah, that really happens. It shakes your confidence in your ability to trust yourself. Especially when you had spent your life believing that if you were open and honest with people, they would respect that and you.
I was drowning; our son was being bullied at school, my husband had one foot out the door, infidelity, a crumbling marriage, a tragedy in my immediate family on the other side of the world and no way to get there, betrayal, and vindictive behavior with a smattering of alcoholism thrown in, occurrences that are so commonplace yet so devastating, especially when happening simultaneously.
The pressure of trying to hold it all together was immense. So, I soldiered on, as you do. Plastering on a brave face, pretending everything was great, feeling more and more isolated, irrelevant, and invisible. I was on the verge of tears almost all day every day, and would often spend my drive home from work sobbing because I felt so lost and alone.
Nancy came into my office one morning before we opened and asked that pivotal question: “Is everything ok with you?” Her sincere look of concern and her genuinely caring tone caught me completely off guard and I started crying, barely choking out a “no, things are definitely not ok.”
Every day, her willingness to listen, kind words, conversation, sense of humor, and graciousness was my life raft, giving me strength to get through one more day, often carrying me on the very darkest days.
I spoke to her every morning on my commute to work. She was my touch point keeping my feet on the ground. I loved her a lot and felt so lucky to have someone in my corner. And I told her. I have experienced firsthand how just the thoughts and kindness of one person, can make a massive difference in someone’s life when they are dealing with hard things. Not that they really do anything, except give you time and listen, gifts worth more than money. I keep this in mind as I move through my own life.
As the months turned into years, and I processed and evolved, she was still my morning check-in. By this time, I was stronger and life was becoming easier, we would laugh and talk smack or she would catch me up on what was going on with her loved ones. Or the birds at the private lagoon behind her house or her pineapple plant. She was as consistent as daylight. And I was grateful. I’m so glad I didn’t wait to thank her and tell her that I loved her.
She encouraged me to follow my heart in all areas of my life. She empowered me just by listening.
The last time I spoke to her was the night before my son’s birthday, I thought it was strange that she called me so late in the afternoon. The first thing she said was “I’m in hospital, but don’t worry, I’m fine”.
Much like the robocalls that begin with “Please, don’t hang up!” What they tell you to not do is the very next thing you do.
I remember where I was stuck in traffic on 150 with the spring sun shining in my face, which is how I imprint hearing unexpected news. It’s like I suddenly notice everything. Things don’t slow down, but my brain takes a 3D picture, I notice and remember every single thing in vivid detail; the way the light is, the specks of pollen floating in the open car window, where I was on the road/room/sidewalk, what I am driving past or looking at, the way the light catches the leaves blowing at the top of the huge trees on the left side of the road, the yellow bumper sticker on the truck in front of me, the energy of what I am thinking and feeling. I struggle to remember dates and days, unless there is a significant event tomorrow…like say, my son’s birthday.
I voiced my concern, but she was only in the hospital for a few days, and she would be fine, she assured me. Just something they wanted to check out, just had a bit of an anomaly the previous evening. Maybe a small stroke. They thought she may have some cancerous cells, just running a few tests to make sure she was all good. She would be home in no time. She asked about our plans for the next day. We talked about the cake and the balloons I was on my way to buy. We laughed about the shitty traffic I was sitting in, and she said to wish my son a Happy Birthday.
I’m pretty sure I told her I loved her, but I honestly do not remember. That was the last time I heard her voice, the last time we laughed about anything.
I often wondered about her health, she always said she was fine, but I had a sneaking suspicion that something else was going on. She would tell me about serious-sounding treatments or therapies and procedures she would have, and blow them off with some “just routine,” explanation. Or she had to travel to another state to see her doctor as he had always been her doctor and she couldn’t be bothered building a relationship with a new one. And besides it gave her and Bill, her partner, a chance to travel around and see friends, etc. (They had both lived in Florida and around the Charleston, South Carolina area most of their lives). A few times I even said words to the effect that it sounded like a treatment for something more serious. She’d say it was part of her annual checks and treatments, and that it sucked growing old. Despite the fact that she was only fifteen or so years older than me. I did not have the emotional capacity to worry or press her about it. I know that people share things they want to share when they want to share them. And if they don’t I’m good with that too.
I was pretty sure she still smoked, but very very discreetly. Nancy had one of those raspy, croaky voices and had been a party girl back in the day. In the mornings when I’d talk to her, she’d usually be outside on her covered porch, drinking coffee and watching the birds, or checking her pineapple plant. I was fairly certain I would hear her smoking. From being a smoker myself for a dozen or so years, I recognized the pattern of taking a drag when you were in between words, and the sound of blowing the smoke up over your head when exhaling, so as not to blow it into your coffee. But I wasn’t about to call her out on it, I tend to trust that adults are quite capable of making their own decisions. I know I don’t have the right to decide the way I think everyone should be. Or tell them so. Nor would I want to. I know that people are incredibly aware of their own bad habits and do not need to be made to feel guilty or judged, besides, I’d rather just enjoy their company while I’m with them.
That final phone call was at the end of April, after that Nancy didn’t get to go home, she never left the hospital. I was in frequent contact with her husband/ partner Bill. As well as her grandson, which was how we met and she came to volunteer at the store in the first place. Texts to her phone were answered by Bill, and I felt stupid for some of the frivolous texts I had sent in that last week, I thought I was lifting her spirits. I’m sure they all knew the end was near, but I didn’t think to ask, and nobody told me. My book, which had finally been published was ready to be sent to her. I wrote a dedication to her and everything. Thanking her for all the encouragement and the countless times she talked me off the ledge. For being such a wonderful friend. I just needed the date she was checking out so that I could put it in the mail to her, and it would be waiting for her when she got home.
Nancy would always tell me that you only really need one friend as you move through various massive adjustments in your life. That a big circle is often an empty circle. I was so grateful she was my one friend.
I don’t blame them for not telling me, how were they to know we were so close and had become such good friends? How were they supposed to know we spoke to each other every day? That she was the person I talked to honestly about my life and circumstances with? The person I called when I found my husband in bed with someone else? The person who shared with me her own history and broken love story, her joy in getting to be with the love of her life at last, after years forced apart, the journey she took on her own.
It didn’t occur to me that maybe I should try and get to the hospital to see her four hours away. I was sure she was going to be fine like she said. And a lot of things like that don’t even register for me. I don’t know why.
When Bill texted me to tell me she had passed, it was late on a weeknight, I was already in bed. I heard my phone vibrate and saw a text from Nancy’s phone. Of course, I read it.
And I read it again.
And again.
I didn’t believe what I was reading.
I still have the text on my phone. It’s been two years and I just can’t bring myself to delete it.
The cancer had returned with a vengeance and she had a massive stroke.
Wait, what? What cancer?
It felt like all the wind had been sucked out of me, and I started crying, I must have made a noise or said something out loud, and my son came into my room and asked what was wrong. I told him, and he sat on my bed and gave me a hug. I cried. At first just big silent hot tears but then as I drew in a breath, the floodgates opened and I started full-on ugly crying.
It didn’t occur to me to ask about the funeral or even call Bill, as mentioned, I’m surprisingly absent about stuff like that sometimes.
And besides, it would have been weird to go to a funeral where the only person I really knew was in the casket, and people would have no clue who I was. And I’d have to explain myself to them.
Yeah, too weird I told myself.
I didn’t know what to do, and I couldn’t call Nancy to discuss, it because, she was gone.
I couldn’t call anyone. This was exactly the sort of thing I spoke to her every day about. What’s the next best step? Action? Move? Who could I bounce ideas off now? Talk things out?
I tried hard to tune in to her energy, but could not. This is not entirely out of my realm, as I find it easy to tune in to somebody’s energy and have had many conversations in dreams with people I have had a connection with who have passed.
I know that spirit communicates with us through songs, nature, birds, and dreams, a snippet of relevant conversation here, a dragonfly landing there, and a beautiful feather right in our path.
It was not too long after that when I was sitting at my desk, working, when I heard a song I had never heard before, “I Wish Heaven Had a Phone.”
I knew it was Nancy communicating with me. I didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of peace or anything, more of a wish to communicate. That she had so much to tell me. And she knew I had so much to tell her. More of an acceptance I guess. I suddenly heard that song a lot more over the next few months, and I got it.
Still, her absence sneaks up on me, so randomly that it surprises me I’ll feel an overwhelming chasm of loss and wonder what she would have said or thought about a situation I was dealing with, wishing I could just hear her voice, her thoughts.
Like other relationships of varying degrees of connection that have merely been a season in my life, it ended so unexpectedly. You never know when the last time you will see, hug, talk to, work with, or hang out with someone. Because you just don’t.
I have no regrets because I have learned from experiencing the heartbreak of words left unsaid, the gaping wound in your soul and hole in your heart never really heals. You eventually learn to live with the scar tissue. And swear to yourself that you will never again, withhold words of gratitude or love from someone. And you carry on, somewhat altered on a fundamental level, maybe a little, or a lot.
Nancy knew how grateful I was, and how much I valued her. Because I told her often.
I am working on normalizing telling people that I love them because they should know they are loved.
I’d rather face the terror of someone knowing how I really felt about them, than the anguish of words left unsaid.
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