My Friend Carol

It seems the past four years have been rife with funerals.  It takes both hands, and one foot to count them all.  I suppose this is something Shawn and I have to 'get used to' now that we are getting 'older.'  After yet another funeral this past weekend, Shawn and I remarked on them, saying it would be nice to go a while without one.

I guess God always has the last word though, doesn't He?

My friend Carol died today.  I just got the call a little while ago.

I met Carol through a Christian support group for those of us with chronic illnesses almost 10 years ago.  Being the youngest of the group, I was their 'project,' a role I never minded with them, while I would've resented it with others.  They had so much to teach me, and I had so much to learn.  I learned from these women, I learned from Carol, and I still love each and every one of them.  The lessons they taught me are lessons I still carry with me now.  I looked to them not just for illness-related advice, but maternal advice, parental advice, and day-to-day life advice.  These amazing women weren't just friends, they are family.

In some ways, Carol's death is almost a bittersweet relief.  She suffered, she was sick, she was becoming more and more disabled, and less and less independent.  Carol battled her fair share of crap, but she battled it with--beauty?  Panache?  Faith?  Goodwill? All of the above, and more.  That doesn't mean she didn't have bad days, and didn't complain, but she was always faithful to God through it all, grateful for what she did have.   She won a battle against addiction, only to have her body fail her, revolting against her with so many autoimmune diseases.  These past few years, as her body declined further, so did her mind.  Her son, a few years younger than me, moved in with her a few years ago and has been taking full-time care of her ever since.  She leaves behind adult children, and grandchildren, and so many friends.  Her oldest granddaughter, whom she loved dearly--her eyes truly sparkled when she spoke of her--was truly the apple of her eye.  These past few years, she was recognizing people less and less.  Even when I saw her in the store, on the street, anywhere in public, standing right there in front of her, I missed her.

One of the things we had in common was being fired from our teaching jobs because our bodies just couldn't do the work required.  She was a brilliant elementary school teacher who loved her students dearly.  Losing her job was a crushing blow; when I joined the support group, she was the one who talked me through my own crushing job loss.  Carol was more than a friend, she was a mentor to me, mentoring me about how to be sick, and even more importantly, how not to be sick.  "Don't let this beat you, Amy," she'd say.  I don't know if I ever thanked her for the role she played in my life, the role she played in my survival.  I remember how she laughed, such a hearty laugh--not laughing at me, but laughing with me, even though I wasn't able to laugh at myself at the time--after our group meeting was over one day, we were just talking, and me, still relatively new to motherhood, confessed, "I'm not the world's best mom.  I'm terrible.  I'm awful, I'm horrible.  I don't deserve to be Noah's mom."  I remember how she, and the rest of the group (all seasoned moms), erupted into hysterical laughter.  Not mean laughter, but oh-honey-we've-been-there laughter.  Carol covered my hand with her own and said, "Sweetie, and the rest of us are?!?!?!  The rest of us do deserve to be moms???"  Once the laughter subsided, each friend shared their own maternal horror stories with me, and I was able to relax.  I wasn't alone, in more ways than one. She was always so patient with me when I was being pouty and obstinate and angry, and so patient with Noah when I had to bring him along to our group meetings.  I will always remember the look on her face, and how we all rejoiced, when I was able to finally announce Avery's pregnancy.  I'm quite certain they knew before I did, and there wasn't a dry eye at our table.  I remember passing newborn Avery around our table, the way Carol looked at him with such love.  

Carol was beautiful.  Another thing I learned from her: no matter how bad the day, a little lipstick can fix almost anything.  Always dressed to the nines, Carol took care of herself, her hair always perfectly coifed, her make up perfectly in place, her smile a mile long, her laughter hearty, her hugs at the ready, even when they hurt.  From the outside, except for her cane, then her walker, and eventually her wheelchair pushed by her son, you wouldn't have known she was sick.  It never showed on her face, even on her worst days.  We joked that she made the rest of us look bad!

Dearest Carol, I'm going to miss you.  My life is richer, fuller, and better because of you.  I overcame so much with your advice, help and encouragement.  I'm still overcoming so much because of your wisdom I now carry with me.  I love you dearly, and I miss you, even as I imagine you running, skipping and jumping through heaven, perfectly healed, your legs and body no longer betraying you, the sun (Son) on your face, beauty surrounding you.  

Thank you, Carol,  for you, for being a part of my life, for what you taught me, for the example you were to me,  just for everything.  You were amazing, and I will never forget that.