Back in 2019, I would have never imagined my body’s survival into 2021. I expected to have already seen Heaven’s pearly states, a thorough life review, and some final judgment, a curt, quick command, “Away with ye.” Two months into 2021, I can honestly attest that this has been a year of death, just not mine.
Tag Archive: Love
Trump’s fifty-plus minute diatribe in Charlotte, North Carolina reminded me of a Tale of Two Cities, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way. . . .” I flashed to 1963.
In June 1963, Buddhist monk Thich Quang Duc publicly burned himself to death in a plea for President Ngo Dinh Diem to show “charity and compassion” to all religions. By November 1963, Diem was overthrown. Students of history, all of us should compare such self-sacrifice against the tyranny of the current administration. To be fair, Trump doesn’t hate protests, only dissent.
Pandering to cult leadership is not new. However harmful we thought previous leaders were, I don’t recall the overly targeted criticism of athletes who knelt, silently and peacefully, during the national anthem. Public rebuking NFL players in a series of tweets ended the NFL quarterback (Kaepernick); goodness of evil was emphasized when white supremacists marched; and black men and women are wrongly shot, most recently in the back. And most Americans sat on our asses and watched it all while the ‘shit-show’ ran amok.
In four short years, America witnessed institutional dismantling, justice to the preferred, truth for those who lied under oath, and rapping U.S. coffers for personal gain. In four years, healthcare dismantled, environmental standards ripped apart, legal norms suffocated, sought election interference from foreign powers, separated children from immigrant families and threw them into cages like stray dogs, told citizens to inject bleach (or maybe a light), spouted unproven medical quackery, and by December, will have witnessed 300,000 U.S. citizens die. We watch, all the while acknowledging the damage.
The president’s sister described him as a liar and fake. A former senior official at the Department of Homeland Security deemed him a danger to the country. CNN claims a prominent Fox News anchor had once called him “batshit crazy.” John Bolton, former Defense Secretary James Mattis, and former Secretary of State Rex Tillerson have described our leader as a danger to America. Sadly, none of these men or women were able to rise above the moment to demonstrate something greater. Perseverance of love failed miserably.
In his death, Thich Quang Duc demonstrated his compassion love – the need for bridges, not hatred. Presidential Historian Jon Meacham echoed Duc’s sentiment at the recent Democratic Convention, “Extremism, nativism, isolationism and a lack of economic opportunity for working people are all preventing us from realizing our nation’s promise, and so we must decide whether we will continue to be prisoners of the darkest of American forces or will we free ourselves to write a brighter better nobler story. Our (the American) story has soared when we have built bridges, not walls.”
Which story will you build? Bridges? Or walls?
“I wish your father were a part of our lives,” my mother blurted while playing Dominoes. Since suffering a stroke, my father’s health declined from a self-professed sports addict to being unable to recognize anyone, including my mother. In the wake of Coronavirus, many families are staring at walls, hoping for an idea ‒ or perhaps a miracle ‒ to come through those walls that will return life to the ‘normal’ once known. Such miracles rarely, if ever, occur, and we are remanded to rehashing previous events, hidden wrongs, and unquenched anger.
If the story is correct, my grandmother said my father created chaos wherever he went. For our family of four, chaos spared none. Preferring to drink with ‘bar buddies,’ my father was absent for a significant portion of family life. Post-stroke, he disappeared again, shuttled off to assisted-living, left to manage his thoughts alone. Yet, each family member is left to balance inner thoughts, and as walls close inward, secrets begin oozing from the crevices.
Sixty or so years is a long time to carry grudges, but my mother’s pain appears just as raw yesterday as it did 50 years earlier. Like 40 percent of children sleeping in homes where fathers do not reside, my mother bore the responsibility of managing both the household and children. Dark secrets buried nearly half-a-century were suddenly barfed onto the dining room table. I can personally attest to the consequences of a life stuffed into canyons far more profound than anything created.
My father neither saw my brother or I as we were, he saw us only as he wished we were. Being quite adept at sports, my father drew nearer to my older brother as I struggled to find shelter, to hide or fit. To be anything else, I learned, often entailed humiliation. As the years went, I found a way to mingle while never exposing the inner child who desired love. Turning eighteen, I left.
I carried forth my father’s legacy: chaos. At times I skipped school and received poor grades. I committed a crime, but only by God’s grace, I was never prosecuted. I was promiscuous and was foundationally set for poor relationships, including several divorces. Unknowingly, I became my father, and the journey to unwind it has been long.
Being so flawed, I often reflect upon the nature of perfection. Recently, I asked Ms. K. why, out of all the people in heaven, she waits for me. “Because you are always seeking to improve. The danger for you is that you have become focused on shortcomings, that I would judge harshly, unable to accept and forgive your faults. I want someone real, not perfect.” And therein lay the hope for us. Maybe perfection in God’s eyes is the desire to improve.
I should stress that we should not accept ourselves. By that, I mean that we shouldn’t swallow the notion to “accept ourselves” as a license for complacency. We shouldn’t say, “I’m going to accept myself. Therefore I have no desire to change.” I accept my desire to change. We need patience, kindness, and forgiveness so that we can bring change to our lives.
To change means bringing more love into your family. And then, ultimately, to you. If we change, you end the repetition of family secrets, children cowering in fear, and unwanted legacies. You are your legacy, and the life you live, by choice or by fate, is the legacy you ultimately leave behind.
Man downhill observing mountain landscape at sunset
Forgiveness is a tough exercise. It’s necessary for peace in life. It’s natural to hold onto the wrongs of life and vowing to get even at some future day. Unfortunately, it rarely works out.
I passed by a COVID patient wishing for some old-time jazz music. I am not talking about the 1970’s jazz scene. I’m referring to classical legends such as Glen Miller. The gentleman tried humming PEnnsylvania 6-5000, but couldn’t remember the lyrics. PEnnsylvania 6-500 was a Glenn Miller hit lasting twelve weeks. Miller wrote the song in an era when most local telephone calls in large cities were dialed directly and required an operator.
PEnnsylvania 6-5000 was recorded by many stars, including the Andrew Sisters. Unfortunately for the Andrew Sisters, Maxene and Patty Andrews had a falling out. Some claim the issue was due to a family estate, others claim it was from show royalties, and according to a documentary, Maxene Andrews lived two parallel lives: the professional and personal. For years Maxene Andrews had a relationship with her manager, Lynda Wells.
For thirteen weeks, the Andrew Sisters sang together but never spoke to one another. LaVerne passed in 1967, Maxene in 1995, and Patty in 2013. Maxene and Patty never reconciled.
I hoped the patient I passed was not in a similar situation. I pulled out a cell phone, opened YouTube, and placed the phone by the man’s ear. The Andrew Sisters filled the room with angelic harmony. The softly smiled and comfortably rested his hands on his chest.
There’s always a hearing. It comes to us in dreams, or maybe a song, after a reminder of some long lost love or slighted friend. Perhaps we’ll hear that voice at a gravesite, hospital, or in the wake of a simmering feud. However, it comes, it is the voice of God calling, beckoning to remind us of the power and love in forgiveness.
Some of us will wrestle with its authentication. Was it divine? Maybe it was the wine? Yes? No? But if we’re willing to risk abandoning that which matters so little, perhaps we can discern its lesson and experience the power of love – the ability to forgive. The power of God’s love propels us to understand that we can’t live in the now while holding onto yesterday.
Our journey will define our lives. The best route is one that lived in physical, spiritual, geographical, and emotional balance. Yeah, we’ll all walk the valley of doubt, difficulty, anger, and sometimes hatred. Through all of it, we’ll learn to navigate, meet God in the doorway of eternal love, and finally reconcile all that we were, all we are, and all we’ll ever become. It should be the warmth of intimacy, not the allure of fault.
A few minutes later, I left my jazz aficionado asleep, caught in the memories of an earlier life. I could catch snippets and slight moments of a dream. Was that dream from early life? The Andrew Sisters? Glen Miller? Or was the dream of some long feud remaining unresolved? Hard to say. Whatever dream occupied him, I hoped it indeed was peaceful. I hope it was love.
Working nonstop on our company’s Coronavirus Tiger Team is exhausting. Let’s face it; coronavirus news is depressing and impossible to get secluded. On Friday, I mentally shut down. Finally, getting several days off, I extracted myself from any form of COVID news. As valiant as that effort was, my Samsung flooded with COVID-19 messages.
Our Task Force required daily watching of our current Washington administration updates. Many team members left wondering if any intelligible life existed on Pennsylvania Avenue. We can’t stand the constant political bickering and stream of negativity. As Seth Meyers stated, any time, a world-renowned idiot like Donald Trump tells you to think about that’s your queue to exit the conversation. “He’s like the dumbest guy at the cocktail party trying to make conversation by telling you something he read on a Snapple cap.”
Truthfully honest, I don’t give a s••• if Coronavirus gets me anymore. I used to, but not now. Of course, there’s the anxiety associated with still going into a hospital, as my work is considered medically necessary. Sure, there’s the reality that every time I enter the front doors, it increases my probability of catching the virus. And of course, I take exceedingly due diligence, even when I stop for gas. However, at the end of the, it is what is.
Why? Well, there are a lot of people out there worse off than me. For many people, it’s a rather dark time. Jobs are gone. Savings are being depleted. And we’re experiencing long-term isolation never intended.
Humanity survived worse. There were World Wars, the Black Flu, Spanish Flu, smallpox, H1N1, HIV/Aids. Yet, it’s those who find purpose under unimaginable circumstances will survive – and eventually prosper. Frankl called it the ‘quest for meaning.’
Sometimes we find meaning in extraordinary places. I find it in the transcendental power of Love. Frankl noted this form of Love accordingly.
“Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance.”
Frankl’s words, “life is never made unbearable by circumstances, but only by lack of meaning and purpose,” are a call to action today. Finding purpose, a fundamental requirement for human health and well-being, will not cure the Coronavirus, but may well mitigate its effects and enable a more rapid recovery.
Zig Ziglar stated we could either react or respond. Sure, many of us will have good days. Many of us will have bad days. But each of us can choose to adopt positive attitudes and control our response to the circumstances.
Therefore, when I say, “I don’t give a s••• anymore,” it’s because I do. I refuse to ‘react’ to COVID-19. Instead, I am responding by finding any semblance of Love possible. I choose to find meaning and purpose in what I do. If I die, then so be it. I die in meaning and Love.
“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”
~Victor Frankl ~
In the past several years, I’ve only told two people of visits from Ms. K: my case manager and a close friend. And thus far, I’ve only mentioned my Parkinson’s diagnosis to the readers of this blog and my therapist. Although I’ve dropped a few bread crumbs in my blog about my identity, I’ve kept my identity hidden and don’t fear exposure from my readers.
I have to admit; after Parkinson’s diagnosis, there were several occasions when I thought Ms. K. was nothing a delusion; for, as you may know, about 20% of Parkinson’s patients develop some form of hallucination. Delusions can lead to jealousy, persecution, aggression, and can pose safety risks to family members or caregivers. I will state that I have not experienced any such delusion.
Allow me to explain.
Ms. K. never told me to hurt someone, jump from a cliff, told me ‘they’ (whoever ‘they’ might be) were after me. Additionally, I’ve neither become upset, distraught, nor combative about her presence. She never appears during the day, does not appear daily, and doesn’t bug me when I’m alone.
In fact, Ms. K. has only selectively appeared during meditation. Initially, she graced me with her presence in 2014. Inbetween 2014 and 2019, she never visited.
In 2019, she reappeared (see Landing Zones). During the time she’s appeared, she’s said my time was limited, treated me like a friend, and said she would meet me when I die. That’s it.
Turns out, Ms. K. is a friend. She’s the friend I wish I had four decades ago and remains true to the values lived in life.
Ms. K. has never exalted herself and never fashioned something she could be proud of. Additionally, she’s never left God out of the picture and has never assisted me in building a monument unto myself. Lastly, she’s never let me live in pride. She pretty much tells me as it is. I can be right, I can be wrong, but I always receive her best. Lastly, her faith is Christlike and is based in love, and bathed in the belief she has in me and is not dependent upon some old rules.
A good friend has integrity, even when the bottom falls out. Although she never discussed the pain of her cancer battle, I envision she remained faithful to the end. She never compromised. And instead of finding why, she only embraced God knowing that He only would make the difference.
Right, Ms. K. is the true display of God’s awesome power and a reminder of God’s presence. There’s no lightning. No whirlwind. No voice from a burning bush. There’s just a voice of reason, a presence of commitment, and a bottomless bucket of grace, despite everything I’ve done.
In the end, Ms. K.’s no illusion – she’s an actual presence of love. It’s that very presence God wishes us all to have.
That, my readers, is no delusion. It’s a friend.
Lindsay Crouse Op-Ed stirred memories. Her article, My Ex-Boyfriend’s New Girlfriend Is Lady Gaga, was intriguing and probably brought tons of memories for many a reader. She recounted the sequence where she saw her boyfriend with Lady Gaga while watching the Superbowl, eloquently noting “Gaga was ‘wearing 2020’s hottest new accessory: a normal boyfriend.’”
Normal? What’s normal?
I admit, one of my exes is not a famous singer, sports personality or politician. However, the ex that makes me relate is a well known, highly visible, often seen member of the pro-life community. Thinking again, maybe she’s political.
I don’t classify the relationship boyfriend-girlfriend. We were only together for eight weeks. It was passionate. No. It was hugely passionate. It was the type of passion where electrical sparks flew upon meeting. When locking eyes, it was like ‘holy s•••.’
Like Ms. Crouse’s relationship, mine faded, with each pursuing other opportunities. Outside of this blog, I no longer have a social presence, and only three people knew of our relationship. I know my ex has a boyfriend. She’s had that same boyfriend for years and might be married. Therefore, no one texts saying, “Have you seen the new boyfriend?”
Occasionally I see my ex on the news. When I do, I marvel. She’s amazing. However, comparing any current relationship against her might seem motivational, it means little. Our relationship was ten years ago. Now that I have Parkinson’s and maybe only a few years left, she might be better off. I am not a Harvard finance guru, don’t have a law degree, haven’t saved an endangered species, cured cancer, nor flown in space. I am average. I work and blog.
Hanna Gold summarized Crouse’s thoughts. I couldn’t say it better.
“If your ex starts dating Lady Gaga, he is far gone, buh-bye, see ya, so long — your ex belongs to Lady Gaga now and follows her from Lake Como to Dubai. Which also means he will never be at the same party as you again. Nobody you know is personally acquainted with his girlfriend. Sometimes you nostalgically skim a People magazine in the checkout line; it’s no different than if he had moved to Montana and started a blog. He shall suffer the ignominy of being compared to Bradley Cooper in a cowboy hat for all his days.”
Come to think of it, I am not Bradley Cooper, but I own a cowboy hat. Hmm. I wonder if my exes’ studmuffin knows? Ah, probably not. Regardless, when you see your ex on television, wish her/him the best, and be glad you’re not in the view.
Dear Ms. K.:
Six years have passed since you left.
When we first met around 2001, we were strangers. And interestingly enough, at this moment, we remain strangers. I tend to believe you’re sitting or working in God’s house in another part of creation. The rest of us stay thinking about getting through the rest of the day, getting through life’s challenges.
For years, we had no contact. As a vagabond road warrior, consultant, and former serial asshole, I’ve never earned a CPA. My cellphone camera is used only for receipts. I am not sure if the ‘flash’ portion works. Old girlfriends and wives can attest I’ve disappeared from their lives shockingly fast, as I could barely commit to next week, let alone years.
You remained local, set sights on marriage, a home, and a career.
Reconnecting in August 2007, our friendship rekindled, occasionally sharing lunch, swapping stories, and distant lands traveled. 2010 found me flying further onward, in 2013, you left forever.
Strange how similar we are. Never saying a word, I wasn’t aware you had cancer. It’s the same tactic I use currently. Sharing a cancer diagnosis is exceptionally personal, and while I never felt close enough to be considered in your inner circle, looking back, I should have known. I should have recognized. You were thin, but I dismissed it. The eyes were hauntingly distant. Maybe you didn’t want me to feel sorry or change how I treat you. I remain unsure.
We met in life, but post-life remains real. Upon returning in 2014, our connection deepened. In some way, maybe we always had it, lose it, and find it. We remained connected and are ‘one’ in some strange, beautiful way.
I worry.
Six years past, I vaguely remember your laugh. And as much as I would love, I cannot feel the touch of your hand. I still don’t know anything about you or what God has you doing.
I know you’ve been working. You said as much. However, I don’t know if you are a writer, or if you’ll read books any me outdoors while overlooking the small park you’ve labored on. I must confess, as you sat atop the overlooking the park’s beauty, my scenery was you.
Still, all I have left of you are two pictures, a resume, and an obituary.
Yet, you’re special to me. I know you exist. You are my miracle.
You’re showing me how to find heart, and understand that the best miracle of miracles was making my heart beat.
I have no idea why you said you’d meet me. Sometimes I wonder if you’ll run out of patience with this ol’ man and run off to future endeavors. Yet, I believe you will be there.
I don’t understand our untouchable bond, so pardon my foolishness when we meet. The amount of love you have will stun me. You’ll flip my heart on its axis, and I’ll beg to be forgiven for ever doubting you’d meet me. As I wrote previously, living in solitude these years has allowed me to recognize my growth. I am deeply human, moral, and spiritual. And I know that for most pressing ethical questions, the spiritual and political often go hand in hand.
Recently, you told me not to give up. I concur. It’s never too late to be whoever you want to be. I have changed. In years past, the intimate side of my soul did not acquire essential skills of vulnerability, how to set boundaries, how to listen, and how to speak up. I learned the art of compromise and forgiveness but found many who couldn’t. I cultivated significant wisdom from failure, but much of it brewed little success.
Ms. K., those were weaknesses, but my promise is simple, don’t give up on me.
- If one doesn’t knock, there will be no answers. Therefore, I will knock on your door.
- If one hasn’t done anything, then don’t expect anything in return. Therefore, I will be the best I can be.
- Standing in place will not gain a thing. So, I will continue to move toward your love.
- If only true love can be embraced, I will embrace you for eternity.
- Love continually renews and reunites. As such, I will grab your hand and renew it daily in the waters of your soul.
- If God allows only ten minutes of agape love, then I will beg for millions within you.
If you wait, I long to be bound.
Happy Thanksgiving Ms. K. . . . God, I miss you.
~ W ~
I wrote the following letter reply to an email from mother. If you haven’t picked up on it yet, my father is entering the last years of his life. And while I have yet to inform my parents of my diagnosis, I wrote what I hope was a well thought response.
My mother’s letter is as follows.
I’ve been wanting to share with you something Dad said the other day. I made a small Christmas wall hanging and said (to dad), “Let’s put it up because it’s so close to Christmas anyway and it won’t get wrinkled.”
I wished Dad a merry Christmas.
He replied, “Yes – for the next 2 Christmases.”
“And many more,” I replied.
“For the next 2 Christmases”.
“And for many others after that?”
“Oh yeah. Sure.” replied very offhandedly’
So, I’m wondering if that’s what just came to his mind or he knows something I don’t? Or, can he can sense something?
Dear Mom:
I read your note with interest. I can attest to some extent of nature’s intuition. So, I will get to this upfront.
Every day in medicine, there are numerous examples of patients who know they are about to die, even if no one else does. They often have a feeling. And even though doctors don’t know how to explain it, the intuition is rarely taken seriously.
In hospital terms, when we talk about instinct, we usually speak about expert clinicians grasping diagnoses in ways that seem to defy rational explanation. Doctors appear to know almost intuitively which data to focus on and which to ignore. Of course, their decision-making is based on experience and deductive reasoning (and perhaps on evidence, too). Still, it seems almost mystical.
Personally, I have learned the years to take such intuitions seriously.
I can’t remember if I told you this or not. Instincts can be derived from other sources. In 2007, The New England Journal of Medicine had the story of a cat named Oscar who lives in a nursing home in Providence, R.I., and seems to have an uncanny sense for when elderly residents are about to die.
Oscar goes to the patient’s rooms, curls up beside the patient — even those residents for whom he has previously shown little interest — and purrs. Staff members learned that this is a telltale sign of impending death, as they’ve witnessed Oscar’s similar behavior in the deaths of at least 25 patients. “This is a cat that knows death,” one doctor said. “His instincts that a patient is about to die are often more acute than the instincts of medical professionals.”
There are, of course, other signs that can guide intuition. Natural aging is one. Or maybe it’s a combination of natural aging and the will (internal will) to remain meaningful. Then there’s Google.
If you’re after a bit of a break from worrying whether killer robots will murder us all, don’t worry: Google knows when we’re all going to die. Google’s Medical Brain AI team has been working on neural network software which can scan through a person’s electronic health records, pull together relevant information, and quite effectively determines how long that person will live.
Accuracy nears 96%.
It turns out Google is efficient at sorting through mountains of data, including scribbled notes on old charts, and turning them into useful predictions while also pointing out to healthcare practitioners where they’ve pulled the data.
Then there’s just plain age. Turns out, the older you get, the accuracy increases. Why? Because people get older and die.
In truth, if you create an algorithm that assesses patients against the mean average age of that person in the population, you reasonably accurately and quickly dial into an expected natural life. For instance, FlowingData website calculates that I have a 10% chance of dying in the next ten years and a 26% chance within 10 – 20 years. And if I input’s dad’s age, he has an 88% chance of dying between in the next several years.
My company has a similar AI program. I inputted dad’s age, some essential background information, recent medical trends, and the result nearly equals dad’s ‘intuition’ – meaning the AI estimated dad is likely to pass within two to two-and-one-half years, with a 47% chance likelihood of a circulatory issue (heart or lung).
People are amazed when I tell them fairly accurate things. It’s not magical. In truth, having been in the medical profession and installing all these systems, I know the statistics, even weird ones. For instance, I know that between 45–50, the relative majority of deaths are due to cancer. As cancer gradually declines in importance, circulatory diseases become the leading cause of deaths those between the ages of 75–80. Mental disorders (Alzheimer’s, dementia, etc.) and diseases of the nervous system are common causes of death after 80+ years of life.
Of course, dad knows none of this. He does, however, know his own body. He’s tired, and like many nearing a winter morn’, he may simply want to look moving forward.
Therefore, here’s my suggestion. Forget all the statistics, mind over matter, intuition, etc. Focus on trying to find a way to enjoy the time you have and what you have left. In a way, you are in an enviable position of knowing and experiencing “the ultimate relationship.”
“And what’s that?” you ask.
The ultimate relationship we can have is with someone who is dying. This landscape of such a relationship is so varied and so vast that it not only renews, but you’ll discover a new level of intimacy never experienced. In this way, love will teach a certain sense of gratitude for what we have been given.
But … prepare for when the day comes … for it’s sooner than later.
Sitting in an airport lounge, I noticed a discarded newspaper from a Midwest town I frequently traveled. Thumbing through the newspaper, brought back memories. There was the usual discussions of flood aid, farming developments, local sports, and weather. However, one obituary leaped from the page. The announcement momentarily stunned me. Placing my hands on my knees for support, I inhaled deeply.
Terri, my former sister-in-law, passed at 66. Simply put, she was one of the finest people I ever met.
Long before becoming my sister-in-law, Terri graduated with a Master’s in Education and was a Special Education Teacher for nearly 40 years. Of course, she had children, grandchildren, and husband. None I ever met. As usual, I acquired a long list of customary excuses that mean little today: Too busy, never around, too tired or too far to make the trip back home. As such, these will mean little to those judging my life.
As far as I knew, Terri was not a trailblazer. She didn’t transform the world, solve cancer, or establish peace between fickle and difficult leaders. Rather, she chose to trailblaze in her small sector of the world. She was an educator, a restaurant owner, and a friend. And by using such skills, her life of service expertly navigated the hearts of many, often acquiring deep respect from those within the working class.
The Terri I knew was a humble woman, born in humble origins, and lived in service. She based her life on ideas, ideals, works of charity, and caring for those who suffered. I believe the positions she held allowed her to expand the life and shape the viewpoints of those she touched. And while quickly noticing the flaws of others, deep down, Terri recognized most of us were just one flaw away from those who suffer greatly.
She could see strength and weakness. If need be, she weaponized her humanity and forced movement. I remember such a time when she interjected herself into my life as I was dealing with a spouse in a coma, and exhibited a sense of human decency when others could not. She was my inner voice during those long seemingly endless days.
In many ways, it wasn’t her fight. That said, she refused to allow any opportunity to surrender. When I thought I had enough, she somehow knew to call. “I’m not asking you to win. Just do another day. If you want to quit, call me tomorrow.” Of course, when I called ‘tomorrow,’ she requested another day. Then another. And another.
Her family knew her as a person with spunk. She was funny, wise, and smart. And borrowing from writer Beverly Willett, she recognized my worth and helped me realize it too.
I don’t care how Terri died or the cause. I only care about her legacy. For me, Terri’s friendship came at a crucial period in my life and rested in her ability to see through my pain and extract the goodness. She forced me to believe in something more profound and allowed me the ability to face one more day.
Her friendship is a model I only wish to become. And to you Terri, wherever you are, your spirit will remain in my heart forever.
And that my friends are Terri’s final lessons: See beyond the pain and extract the goodness.