My friend Sherry is dead.
And I found out, oddly, on – as they say, social media.
Disbelief and denial ensued, of course. In desperation, I
tried to get a hold of Sherry’s niece and nephew, the ones who had shared the
news.
Days went by. There were phone tags; there were messages.
But no answer. I didn’t know when it happened, let alone how it happened. Not
knowing was eating at me.
My imagination ran wild. Sherry had been living alone for a
long time. Ultimately she died alone – something I was prepared for up until I
met my now-husband. Actually, chances are.
There was tremendous guilt. See, I’d been avoiding Sherry in
recent months.
Sherry and I met at a time when we were both lonely and sad.
I was at my crest
of self-medication with alcohol. She
had a lifelong history of a plethora of health issues and lived on prescription
cocktails daily.
We hung out when we could. We’d talk, bitch about work,
laugh. I took care of her cats when she was out of town. I let her use my
computer when hers crashed. When she was out on glaucoma surgery, I bought wine
per her request and hid it in her closet so her Mom wouldn’t find it.
Our most glamorous memories were Friday nights of Mai Tai’s
and then hitting “my” wine bar, a cozy joint, NOT a meat market. I take
everyone there. We befriended the owner. On nights with live music in the
summer, Sherry and I, after having knocked back a few, would boogie on the
sidewalk, tickling everyone pink.
And then we’d each drive home, drunk as a skunk, as Sherry
would say, and text each other upon arrival, “I’m okay.”
I would spend a Saturday night at Sherry’s, too drunk to
drive home basically, even though I lived only a few traffic lights away. I was
just glad to have someone to drink with. Sherry once made her famous oven-baked,
crispy-top cheesy rigatoni, and it was the most heavenly thing. I think it was
the hominess. Sherry, a self-proclaimed
asexual, would tell me she loved me. And I’d say it back.
Sherry lived largely in the past. She came out of the closet
in her early twenties. When she fessed up to a coworker and a close friend, the
latter exclaimed, “Sherry, we’ve known all along! We’re just glad now YOU
know!” That was one of Sherry’s favorite stories to tell. She’d always finish
off with a chuckle.
Sherry went on to find the love of her life, Maggie, who was
also just discovering her sexuality. They were young executives, both
petite, and they just painted the town. They built a love nest in a charming,
wealthy part of South
Bay, co-owned several
pets, and visited the city frequently, living large.
Until one day Maggie decided she wasn’t gay, after all.
For Sherry, it was just all downhill from there. She never
picked herself up. The layoff from
the largest-grossing job in her life didn’t help matters. It was paycheck to
paycheck ever since.
Not to shift all the blame to the ex. Moving on had never
been Sherry’s forte. When we met, in her late 40’s, she still could not talk
about her biological father, who molested her when she was a child.
She had this faded, framed picture of hers around the
apartment from when she was an infant, grinning from ear to ear. A happy child,
bright soul. You could tell she was a true redhead. She’d never hung up the
photo. It was used as blockade to keep one of her cats from getting behind the
couch. And it remained face in. She was still grieving for that lost innocence.
That rage beneath had been repressed for decades, but it was seething, and she
never stopped burning from the steam.
When she passed, one of the first thoughts that came to my
head was, “What’s gonna happen to her cats?”
By the time Sherry lost what would be her last job, I had
already been unemployed for a while. That became another common ground.
Sherry’s health continued to be on the decline, enough to
quality her for permanent disability. I had problems of my own. At one point,
when we’d muse about meeting up and doing something, I joked, “You can’t walk
and I can’t sit. What’s left besides lunch?!” We laughed, and hard.
It wasn't like she wasn't trying. She was going to Weight Watchers. She'd "quit" smoking every few months. She was getting by with fewer drugs.
There were things to look forward to. After she downsized,
remodeling took forever. She was promised an oven. Someday, another baked
rigatoni party! When RJ and I moved from a rented house to a condo, I handed
down the lounging chairs she loved so much. Her backyard needed a lot of work
but I could see her out there on a summer afternoon, enjoying a warm breeze, a
Sapphire and tonic set nearby.
As it turned out, the oven would never come. The chairs
would sit in storage during winter months and never re-emerge to see the light
of day.
We drudged on, and it became obvious that our time
together wasn’t fun anymore. I felt that we were struggling to find things to
talk about. There was no deep connection, no symbiosis. Or maybe there never
was. Maybe all there ever was was codependence of sorts.
What bothered me the most was: there was no joy.
Sherry had grown stoic. Now, there are days when I feel
blah. But with Sherry, I was starting to see that, in the past few years, I’d
been trying to cheer her up. I’d delight her with my black humor to convince
her it was OK not to be nice all the time. I’d buy her a snack, introduce her
to new cuisines, be on her side, be kind so her self-esteem
would increase. In hindsight, even when she would act excited about something
that I’d brought, on her own she never would’ve gone out of her routine to
acquire it. Even when I would’ve named the place, given her the address.
She’d lost that drive a long time ago, along with her love.
She’d lost passion, such that her favorite response was, “Huh.” In the most
monotonous, devoid way.
Then I found a job and the gap between us widened. All of a
sudden there was no good time to get together. I was always too tired, too
busy.
I realized I simply had no desire to see Sherry.
RJ analyzed with ease that it was because Sherry didn’t add
value to my life.
Around the same time, I read an article in the New York
Times about “the art of breaking up with a friend”. There is plenty of self-help on the topic of severing ties in a romantic
relationship. But this was news to me.
Do you fade away? Be upfront? It’s tricky, especially with
all the technologies today to reach someone. Old excuses do not apply. I heard
what I wanted to hear. People grow apart. Sometimes someone just doesn’t “fit”
in your life anymore. So it was okay! I was absolved.
For weeks and weeks I’d hear from Sherry here and there. I’d
write back just to be polite, painting a bleaker picture of life than I felt so
she wouldn’t feel bad about hers. I’d be vague since I had no intention of
setting up a meeting. I figured distancing myself
was the most innocuous way.
About two months ago Sherry emphatically wrote to state it’d
be really nice to meet up to share some news, news that she’d rather not do so
via email.
“Good news I hope,” I wrote in reply.
She said something along the lines of “I hope I’m not losing
my sense of humor”.
When Dahlia, Sherry’s niece, and I finally had a phone
conversation, she mentioned that I was the only person out of the 25 she had
contacted who responded. I was shocked. I actually made a point to hop online
to see who these 24 heartless peeps were.
“Oh, some people probably don’t go on their computer
everyday,” Dahlia had said.
What?! I’m forty years old and you bet your ass I check my
fricking messages every single day. Are you kidding me?
Dahlia seemed genuinely grief-stricken and to have deeply
cared for Sherry. “This is the first time I am able to talk about this without
crying,” she said, and her voice cracked.
I had seen Dahlia in photos before, although when Sherry had
talked about her and her mother (Sherry’s sister), there was no telling how
close they were, or were not.
I got my information, which wasn’t much at all. By the time
her neighbors alerted the landlord on a Sunday evening, Sherry had been gone
for a few days. Her parents, both in their 90’s (mother and stepdad who was the
only real father Sherry’d known), apparently concurred with the coroner on
opting out of an autopsy.
So we’ll never know.
I wonder if she knew the end was near. I wonder if she
cared. If she welcomed it, if she was scared. Or if she simply drifted off.
I keep picturing Sherry in her chair (for a long time she
hadn’t been able to lie in bed anymore), motionless, comfortable, forever. That
was her main concern in the years I’d known her – to be comfortable, above all
else. Not to be happy, or anything else that wasn’t within reach.
I keep picturing her cats and dog pacing around for four
days after her passing, without food, certainly aware that she had perished.
“I feel so bad,” Dahlia had confided. “She was alone.”
I know.
Oh, the guilt. The guilt of being alive. Of still being able
to experience pleasure. I’m upset that I’m not more upset. I couldn’t say “She
was a dear friend” to Dahlia – I felt that would be a lie. But she was a friend.
And we both reached the deep end at one point. I survived. She did not.
Lately, when I think about Sherry, and I grow restless, I
listen to “Wasteland” by Matt White, and I have peace for a while. I don’t know
why.
About two weeks ago, Sherry had pleaded to meet up. “I miss
your face,” she had said.
Which I found very disconcerting and inappropriate, but,
softened, I agreed that it was time we met, and made arrangements. We were
going to get Mai Tai’s and swing by our dear old wine bar, “just like old times”.
“I do miss downtown Soonsville,” I had written. I didn’t say
I missed her.
Then, a day before our gathering, Sherry canceled on me,
“I’m not exactly in party mood.” In fact she was now in AA.
I threw my arms in the air. “I finally gave in,” I lamented
with RJ. “And now this!”
“Sherry has always been flaky,” observed RJ.
Honestly I had not concluded that in my assessment.
Sherry was concerned that I was mad. I assured her that
really I understood.
“Some other time,” I said.
Only there will be none.
