My oldest friend, Mary Boule, died ten
years ago today. We'd known each other since we were seven years
old—almost fifty years. She was my oldest friend and was very much
loved.
I still miss her.
In April of 2005, during Easter break,
I had a call from her sister, Carrie. Mary had not been well all
winter. She'd complained of stomach pains but her doctor could find
nothing wrong. But by spring, the pain had gotten worse. She'd just
come from the emergency room where a doctor suspected pancreatic
cancer. A few days later, tests in Burlington confirmed the worst.
Carrie thought I'd want to know.
And of course I did.
Growing up, I never had a sister, but
Mary had been my friend for years and was the closest thing to a
sister I had. We'd been friends for almost 50 years and had been
through a great deal in our life.
I was devastated. Who wouldn't be. I
knew how fast this cancer progresses. I just didn't know how much
time we had.
I do not know how she approached this
diagnosis with the dignity she displayed. She could have complained,
but she never did—to me at least. She could have withdrawn into a
depression, but she never did. Whenever I visited, which was just
about every day, she was grateful and happy to see me.
Mostly we'd chat about “old
times”--high school and “the gang.” We talked a lot about our
college years when she was in Buffalo and I was in Fredonia, 40 miles
away. We went back and forth often. We reminisced about the
thousands of hours we spent together after college, camping trips to
Valcour, late, late nights drinking white wine with yellow raisins at
the bottom of the glass, campfires at the Boule camp on Lake
Champlain and about our young years as neighbors at 134 Brinkerhoff
Street. There was no end to what we talked about.
I told my principal that Mary was dying
and that I would be taking a day off every two weeks to spend with
her. He was a kind and compassionate man who didn't balk at the idea
as some administrators would. He understood.
Despite all the chatter, there were
long gaps of silence. I'd just sit with her while she dozed, woke up,
dozed again. Visitors would come and go and despite the pain she was
in, she'd welcome them and be happy for the time they took out of
their lives to be with her. But what mattered the most on those
precious days was that we were together.
But each week as springtime progressed,
I could see that we were losing her. It was hard to watch.
One Friday, in mid-June, I'd come in
after school. We had a normal conversation. I told her I wouldn't
see her until Monday as I had something going on all weekend.
Seventy two hours later, however, I'd
lost her. In that short time, the cancer had gone to her brain. The
smart, witty, fun friend I'd known had slipped away. From then on
the decline was far more noticeable.
She lived a few more days. All of us
who'd been with her through her sickness were with her at the end.
Had she been cognizant, she would have loved to see so many of her
friends gathered. We played her favorite music, gathered round her.
There was nothing more we could do.
Mary died at the end of a perfect early
summer's day, a day like many others we'd shared in our lifetime
together.--a day full of sunshine, a day where field daisies were in
full bloom, a day that had Mary's name written all over it. Sometime
after 9:00 pm she died. The funny, smart, talented friend I'd known
since second grade was gone.
The hole her death made has yet to be
filled. How do you fill a hole from a friendship that lasted fifty
years, a friendship built on trust, non judgment and love? What do
you do when your oldest friend, the person you've shared the same
journey with for so many years, is gone? It's mighty hard not to
miss that person and it's almost impossible to fill those shoes.
Three days later I delivered the eulogy
at her funeral. My other friend Mary had to accompany me to the
podium; it was the hardest public speaking gig I'd ever done in my
life.
After the funeral, when almost everyone
had left the church, I saw Steve and started to cry. I wept and wept
into his arms until there were no tears left. I have no idea how
long this went on, but when I came out of it I saw a circle around
me—friends--who stood by me in this time of deep grief.
I will never forget that circle of
love!
I still miss Mary, miss the bottles of
white wine we'd drink, miss the long talks late into the night, miss
the rides we'd take into the countryside.
She's been gone ten years today! Ten
years. It hardly seems possible.
A month ago I planted an inpatients and
have lit a candle next to it that will burn through the day and
night. At 9 pm, the hour of her death, I will be at Valcour Dock,
where her ashes were strewn on her birthday, two months after her
death. I'll devise some type of “boat” that will carry off a
candle. I'll throw field flowers into the lake. I'll sit and
remember. It will be more bittersweet than sad. I'm selfish enough
to still want my friend with me. I lost her too young!
You're still loved, Mary, and still
missed. We'll see each other sooner than later, and it will be a
joyous reunion.
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