Safe Travels

How do you say goodbye to someone who left too soon?

With tears and stories and wine. It starts with many uncomfortable greetings, acknowledging how great it is to see people and yet for such a sad reason. Most people are still at the stunned stage, somewhere just past anger.

There's a box filled with slips of paper and Sharpies so everyone can write a message to she who is no longer inhabiting flesh.

This part's easy. I know what I want to tell her and I know what I need to thank her for.

Eventually, we all go outside and gather around a small fire to pay tribute to her. Some, not all, people eulogize her, share anecdotes, raise a toast and lay flowers on the fire. When everyone who wants to speak has done so, all the notes are put on the flame to become smoke signals to the great beyond.

I choose not to speak, although I know exactly what stories I'd share. Instead, I wait until people begin moving inside and go stand by the fire to silently tell her all the things that matter. All the reasons I have to be grateful for her insight.

Where I feel lucky is with how many people share with me things she said about me. She once told me that my only responsibility was to keep being as fabulous as I was, but I'd had no clue she'd said such generous things to others about me.

Everyone praises her forthrightness, her live and let live demeanor, her ability to make everyone feel like she was happy to see them.

As the hours pass, the crowd dwindles to just a handful of people sitting outside as the fire dies out. More heartfelt toasts ensue because everyone left knew her well.

Well enough to know she'd have hated what we did for her tonight, even if she understood why we needed to do it.

All I can do is remember her kindness to me and her hope that I'd find the happiness she was sure I deserved.

All I can be is glad to have known someone so gloriously unfiltered.

You Go, Girl

Life isn't fair.

Oh, I know everyone's parents tell them that and it's one of those lessons we all learn as we move through life - the bottom of my world fell out when I was 29- but it's a cliche for a reason. Life's not fair.

Walking home today, I passed by a neighbor's house, a younger woman I first met when I moved to this apartment five years ago. At the time, my beagle and I took a lot of walks and often ran into her and her aged dog, so we would talk as we walked.

Once I lost my dog, I didn't see her nearly as much despite her living half a block away, so our chats were less frequent. So when I saw her doing a small repair on her porch as I walked by, I stopped to chat, asking her how she was.

"Okay for someone fixing my house so my sister can sell it after I die from this brain tumor," she answered casually. It never for a moment sounded like a joke.

At a time like that, words, my stock in trade, become irrelevant. There are no appropriate words when someone tells you that nine weeks ago a large tumor was found on her brain after she began having trouble deciphering words on the printed page.

Pulling back her hair, she showed me the large scar where 80-90% of it was removed in surgery. She's been going through radiation every weekday since.

Once she finishes that, they can better assess her prospects, which they're now guessing range from a few months to two years.

We talked about the irony of it, how well she's always taken care of herself, how fit she looks and feels. At one point, she stood up and spread her arms above her head, posing. "Crazy, right?"

Crazy, cruel, horrible, completely unjust.

I was curious if she planned to keep working and she already is, having gone back to the office a few weeks after surgery because she was antsy working at home.

Surely she planned to travel or indulge herself somehow? " I had an affair with a sheik when I was 21 and in Europe, so I think I'm good with Europe," she said by way of explanation.

Maybe a month at the beach just kicking back? The radiation treatments mean she has to avoid the sun, she said.

But surely you're going to do something to celebrate yourself, I insisted.

She told me about a guy at her office who'd recently shown an interest in her, even cutting out some bad habits at her urging.

Now they've made plans to go away next weekend and she seems really happy about that or as happy as a person can be knowing how short term her future may be.

Her grace and equanimity given the circumstances is downright inspirational and a slap on the back of the head to me to never take anything for granted.

You just never know what life will deal you.

Helluva Wake

Once upon a time I met a guy named Andrew and nothing happened. Oh, we worked together and had bland conversations, but that was about it. And then we drove to Ashland one fine day and discovered our mutual music obsession...that and our shared love of people watching and commenting. A friendship was born.

He was the first person I ever knew who blogged, so I started reading his music blog. But Andrew, unlike me, is quiet and sort of reserved. He's not effusive or the complimentary type. I had to presume that he appreciated me because we've continued to hang out for over three years.

Well, I don't have to presume anymore. Andrew gave me my absolute favorite gift: words. Forget jewelry, clothing or anything that comes from a mall; I'd rather a friend or loved one wrote me a note, letter or e-mail than anything else in the world. And I've always been that way.

And Andrew has gone and done just that. Oh sure, I may have teased him a lot lately about the fact that he never says anything complimentary directly to me. But he knows that the way I show affection for friends is to tease them and give them a hard time, sometimes even employing sarcasm (No!) and he wrote about me anyway, here.

And not only wrote about me, but included a link to my namesake song by a favorite band, surely a nod to our shared bond.

He left out a few memorable moments (like the glow-stick dance party at the Plushgun show at Alley Katz), but maybe that's because we have so many great memories together.

So yes, Andrew, we're even for the moment. But you have to promise to read that e-mail at my wake (P.S: I'll be burnt up, so there won't be a body to be a buzz kill) and read it like you mean it.

I'm only sorry I won't be there to hear you do it, but then I'm sorry I won't be there to witness all of my friends and loved ones sharing stories about me. All the different Karens are going to be revealed, for better or for worse, and some of you are going to be shocked and appalled (and delighted) when you hear what some of the others know of me.

Should be a good time.

Take Me Away, Bistro 27

I completely missed today's snow, probably because i was in a funk (a turducken discussion funk, of all things), which was a shame. Ordinarily, I really enjoy watching snow fall. Along about 8ish, I decided to head to Bistro 27 for whatever it was I needed, which had yet to be determined. Most of their crowd had been pre-Symphony business, so things were quieting down by the time I arrived.

Upon my arrival, Chef Carlos greeted me with "Good evening, Maria," to which I responded by leaving a big pink lipstick outline on his cheek. Since forgetting my name once, it has become Carlos' mission in life to always address me enthusiastically by any name other than my own. I smile about it because his staff gives him so much of a hard time about it....still. As well they should.

One of my favorite things about this local hangout of mine is how well I know the staff. Tonight I was able to discuss Dave's recent comedy show with him while he tried to entice me to join him after work at Emilio's for The Brakes; we then debated the Smiths and the Cure. I heard from Kevin about his new kitten and upcoming med school interview (hair has been cut, nails are next). Pedro and I talked families, coloring and the many places he sees me around the neighborhood and doesn't say hello; he assured me that that will be corrected. It's amazing how often it happens that people say they see me everywhere because I notice practically no one.

Carlos had dealt with the dinner rush, so he had the time to sit with me and drink wine and discuss the state of newspapers, global warming, hooking up and job searches. The highlight may have been him showing me his Brazilian ID card from when he was 18. What a handsome young man he was at such a young age! I could only wish my 18-year old ID was half as flattering, but I know that wasn't the case.

But it was the last several hours after the restaurant closed that I probably enjoyed the most. Manager Ken and I have spent many an evening discussing our overlapping and opposing musical tastes, but tonight we went in a different direction. Ken wanted to give me dating advice as well as his thoughts on some of the guy friends I'd brought in for dinner. I'm always curious about the male point of view, so I listened to his recommendations, male-centric though some of them may have been. I happen to know for a fact that it's not always about sex, despite his insistence that it is.

But it was our discussion of heavier things, namely untimely death, that kept us both lingering way past closing. Few people can relate to losing a loved one to death prematurely, so when we discovered our mutual trauma, we had much to share with each other. Our conversation began with him lecturing me about loosening my dating standards and segued into overcoming grief and still he manged to bring it back to what I should be doing to entice men and find a sexual relationship.

I'm fortunate to have a nearby place with terrific food (Bistro salad, crab and shrimp ravioli in roasted red pepper cream sauce and multiple glasses of Gouguenheim Malbec and Ken's two favorite Pinot Noirs), varied conversational partners and a willingness to dispense advice to customers until all hours.

It didn't quite lift me completely out of my funk, but it was an excellent distraction. As Ken and I discussed, there are times that a distraction is the most you can hope for. Or, as he so succinctly put it, "That was some deep shit."

Indeed it was.

The Layoff Killed Him

"Matt's dead," the e-mail said.

Matt used to be my brother-in-law, but he was my friend before he ever met or married my sister. Back in the '70s, I lived in a group house with him and two other guys and we threw parties, bantered endlessly and left each other scribblings on a white board.

I hadn't seen him in forever.

The last I had heard of him was about a year ago when he got laid off from a company he'd worked for since he was in his 20s. A company where all his close friends worked. After being laid off, he wouldn't return his friends' calls.

The only person he'd talk to was his sister in New England and when he stopped answering her calls last week, she got worried.

Sure enough, when they entered his house, he was dead on the couch.

Now, Matt had his vices: he always drank too much, smoked way too many cigarettes and had two completely different-sized wardrobes to accommodate his eating compulsions and major weight shifts. In time, any of these habits could have been fatal.

But realistically, we all know that it was being laid off that sent Matt over the edge. He was a victim of the recession, sure as if he'd jumped out a window. It's enough to make your heart hurt..