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It's a two-entry day! Read the first, my final Diary Survivor words, here.
Sad news today�
While looking for information on someone�s payroll from last week, I noticed that my friend Barbara had been entered for bereavement time. I asked one of the other women in her area who had died. Turns out that Barbara�s brother was hit by an MBTA train last week. Details at this point are sketchy, but apparently he was in the hospital for a day or so, and no one knew who he was.
I missed the services (they were Saturday), but I�ve got to do something for Barbara. She and I worked behind the front desk together when I first started here, six and a half years ago. She was like my �work mom� for a long time. I�m feeling so bad for her right now.
Life is so damn short, and so damn fragile. We get it. No more reminders needed. Thanks.
Anyway�
Last Tuesday night, I found an envelope in my mailbox, a card from my aunt Chris. The one who�s married to my insane Uncle Bobby. The one who didn�t come to the shower. She sent a card with a $25 check and a note��Sorry I couldn�t make your shower�heard it was very nice. Love, Bob and Chris.�
I�m amazed. Pleased, but amazed. And it�s not the gift. I don�t care about the $25. It�s the fact that I�d completely written them off in my head. Self-protection, I guess. That way, I can�t be disappointed.
I decided that Chris was going to buy me stamps at Carla�s Stampin� Up retirement party. So Chris paid for two sets that I wanted and that are going out of the line. Thanks Chris. Perhaps I�ll use them to stamp her thank you note.
Today, I went down to the lobby to deposit the check. Hey, I�m not stupid�25 bucks is 25 bucks! As I was walking around the line at the ATM, one of the people waiting said, �Jennifer�is that you? Oh my god�it is!� One of my pre-hospital coworkers was waiting to get money for lunch. I haven�t seen Michael since I left the law firm, six and a half years ago. He looks just the same, but I probably wouldn�t have made the connection if he hadn�t seen me and spoken up first.
He was in the hospital for a dermatology appointment and had about half an hour before he needed to check in, so we ended up having lunch together. We caught up on each other�s lives, exchanged numbers, promised to get in touch before he moves to Texas and I move to the Condo, both around the same time.
Michael is another person to add to the list I started making this weekend�a list of people who at one point were SO important in my day-to-day life, but who have, for whatever reason, drifted away and out of my life.
Sunday night, I sat in the hammock by myself while Chris and the Boyfriend both got ready for bed. I knew I was being a little selfish, sitting out there while the Boyfriend curled up in my sheets and waited for me to join him, but I needed a little alone time.
I�d spent a good part of my time off thus far that week in and out of cemeteries, traveling with my mom to put flowers on the gravesites for David and my grandparents. Memorial day. A day for memories. And my memories were crowding my head, making me feel a need for a few solitary moments. Making me feel the need to make a mental list.
I remembered an endless line of people in my life�people who came into it, touched it, touched me, changed me forever, and then walked away. People I haven�t talked to in years, people I couldn�t find now. People I needed. People who made me laugh, made me cry. People I kissed. People I yelled at. People who are gone now, for different reasons. People I�m thankful to have known. I remember loving you all. As, in my own way, I still love you.
I remember you, David. You, who taught my mom�and me�how to laugh, how to relax, how to take life a little less seriously. I remember waking you up in the middle of the night, saying, �I need $30 for the tow truck,� and you, unquestioningly, fumbling for your wallet in the dark. I remember going to Christos with you for dinner, our first solo outing, sitting in the Gold Room. I remember standing at your wedding, pleased and proud and happy as I could be. I remember the day I asked you to adopt me. The day you told me the Boyfriend had asked for my hand. The day I asked you to walk me down the aisle. And I remember loving you. As I still love you.
I remember you, Nana. You, who taught me how to blow bubbles in gum, how to snap my fingers, how to swim, how to wink (an episode I don�t think either four-year-old me or your thirteen-year-old paperboy will ever forget!), how to eat a mussel. I remember cooking at your side in the Beverly kitchen and the camp kitchen, learning that sometimes you need to cook by feel, that it�s okay to not always follow what the book says. I remember calling you on the phone for hours, telling you the minute details of my life, and you always managing to sound interested. I remember loving you. As I still love you.
I remember you, Papa. You, the master of the Wheel of Fortune puzzle. You, who taught me how to bait a hook and clean a fish, and where to find the sweetest blueberries on the bush. I remember sitting at the table, conspiring with you on how to eat ALL the dessert, even though Nana said we needed to save some for the next day. I remember sitting in the basement of the Beverly house, watching you carve your animals, listening to The Entertainer on the juke box. I remember the last Thanksgiving, when, mercifully, for one shining moment, you remembered who I was through the Alzheimer�s haze that had taken over your brain. I remember loving you. As I still love you.
I remember you, Dad. You, the man who lied to me and tried your hardest to remove yourself from my life, but who remained, despite it all, my father. I remember sitting up in the kitchen of our South Main Street house with you, making bread dough lungs for a science fair, campaign posters for the sixth grade presidential race, advertisements for Fellowship dinner shows. I remember working by your side at a Foxboro Stadium David Bowie concert, realizing that you weren�t ever moving home again and letting you tell me it was only temporary anyway. I remember being angry enough to kill you myself. I remember crying, finally, at the news that you�d died. I remember loving you. As I still love you.
I remember you, Melissa. You, the girl who sat in the car with me outside the Artboy�s house, drinking Ciderjacks until we felt brave enough to go inside and confront our erstwhile boyfriends. I remember laughing with you until we practically peed our pants. I remember opening the bathroom door with the EPT test in my hand to find you still standing there, ready to stand next to me through whatever I needed to do next. I remember calling the Chinese restaurant��We have to cancel our order�my friend�has taken ill!� I remember the terror in our hearts the night we heard you were missing. I remember the dull pain of the news that your body had been found. I remember loving you. As I still love you.
I remember you, Glen. You, who always shared whatever you had. I remember your quest to find a martini I liked, a perfect chocolate chip cookie, the ultimate grilled cheese combination. I remember conspiring with you in the kitchen on ways to attract Heather over to your side. I remember the day you labeled the steering wheel in my car��Jennifer�s��just in case I forgot. I remember your constant words, �Remember Jen, you�re the only House Girlfriend I�ve ever really liked.� I remember the shock of your being gone so suddenly. I remember the incredible celebration in your honor. I remember loving you. As I still love you.
The price of love is loss. The remembrance is part of what makes it worthwhile.
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