Sometimes you think your week is going to start out one way, then it takes a sharp turn and leads you on an entirely different path. Sometimes the day wakes you up full of promise and hope, then tucks you in at night, numb and devoid of feeling. Sometimes you plan to write a light-hearted post on the age-old question of "how to find more time", and instead find yourself with a heavy heart, cursing time, and grieving the loss of one of your dearest friends. So you decide to write about that instead.
Today is that day. This is that post. Her name was Alice.
Today is Alice's funeral, far far away from me across the ocean. I would give anything for more time with her. While I was blessed to have been in daily contact with her in her final weeks, there was still not enough time on Earth to tell her how much she was loved. That would take a lifetime.
She was alive on a Wednesday. She died on a Thursday. I cried with disbelief for many days leading up to that day, and with unbridled sadness every day since. This was not the script that had been written for this leading lady. There were many more pages in her book, beautiful blank canvases full of imagery, ready to be captured. Her life had more volumes than the treasured Livraria Lello in Porto, and it was more breathtaking than its winding staircase.
Alice wasn't supposed to die. She was supposed to undergo treatment. To heal, recover, leave the hospital and go home. To be with her family, her partner and her beautiful daughter. To feed her kitten. We were supposed to rendez-vous in Portugal, where we had met, some 22 years ago - just as soon as the pandemic smartened up. Not once did we suspect that that wouldn't happen. Not once did I feel she would leave us mid-chapter; it simply wasn't in her nature to leave things unfinished. She was a doer, a teacher, a quiet leader and a mentor, and as dependable as they come. I am certain she is sitting somewhere, thinking how absurd and terribly boring this all is, this death business. There was simply too much fun in living to be had. And live she did! She also had this uncanny knack for making even the quietest people around her spring to life like marionettes. Let me explain.
When I left Canada to begin my teaching adventure in Porto, I was terribly shy, and she was the first person to befriend me - a genuinely sweet and welcome gesture given that I was her new manager. In addition to an affinity for languages and teaching, we shared a love of photography that was borne long before we met. We nurtured it into adolescence through a weekly photography course she'd convinced me to join, and she assured me I could succeed even though our teacher spoke only Spanish (and I spoke neither Spanish nor Portuguese). She was right. Not only did I complete the course, but I fell deeper in love with photography than I'd ever thought possible. Alice later introduced me to my future (now ex) husband and was very upfront about his prospects as a match for me: "Not him, Ellen!" She introduced me to Euro arts and culture, music and film festivals, and took me to all the far corners of that beautiful city and beyond. With lots of encouragement and laughs, I came out of my shell and found my niche in what could otherwise have been a very lonely existence.
Alice was a people magnet, attracting the best of the best wherever she went; knowing Alice meant building connections between her many networks of friends. It was clear from the get-go why people were drawn to her: she radiated beauty, inclusivity and kindness, qualities which sparkled through her bright eyes. Alice listened, really listened, and spoke with a sisterly wisdom. When you walked away from an encounter with Alice, you felt cared for, and a stronger, and more interesting version of yourself. Like many other of her closest friends, Alice called me sis, and it was a title I wore with honour. We often felt what was going on with each other before ever saying a word. We just knew.
When life led us both to return to our native countries, we remarked how Portugal had become home to us, and always would be. And so we returned year after year, making a point to line up our holidays so we could meet up, if only for a few magical hours. Eventually, life, work and family took over as they tend to do, years passed and our dreams of reuniting again in Portugal were put on hold. Then, cancer came knocking, first at my door, then hers. I felt relieved to have answered it before she did as I was able to tell it, "we're not interested". I later gave her some hope, support and reassurance that she would overcome it too. And she did. Many more years passed and life returned to a sort of normal, as normal as life post-cancer ever is.
Then came the second knock, which expressly ignored our "no soliciting" sign. She had a new cancer caller, and this one was persistent. I was worried, she was scared, but she was determined to close the door on that salesperson. She had a literal army of friends, family and science supporting her as she started treatment. She took to photo-documenting her daily status using a miniature stuffed teddy bear sporting a monogrammed "Alice" sweater as her protagonist. It depicted Alice's world as she prepared for and went through treatment. "Petite Alice" (as I named her), would become Alice's final photography project, a whimsical reflection of her personality and brilliantly creative mind. I miss that little bear's antics.
Today is Alice's funeral, far far away from me across the ocean. I would give anything for more time with her. While I was blessed to have been in daily contact with her in her final weeks, there was still not enough time on Earth to tell her how much she was loved. That would take a lifetime.
Maybe that's the whole point. Maybe it should take a lifetime to tell someone how much you love them. They should feel it every day, if not in words, then in your actions, or even through songs - like each time she sent me Little Fluffy Clouds. I heard you, and I'll never stop listening.
I hope you hear me too. I love you Sis.
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