Heavy Day
I lost a friend today.
Just before ten o'clock this morning, the call came that she was being rushed to the hospital. Only a little bit after that, the call came back that she was gone.
Deborah was a warm, friendly hippie in every sense of the word. She worked in music all the days of her life, and counts extraordinary people among her closest friends. Extraordinary people who all agree that she was the one who was extraordinary. She believed in freedom and peace, in being open to experience and having a wonderful time, no matter what your circumstances.
She opened her home to friends by the dozens, not just her own friends, but her son's friends as well. At one point, her son's entire band was living under one roof, in her basement. She would do their laundry and make sure they were never without snacks. She came to all the shows and knew the words to all their songs. She was their biggest fan.
Deborah loved the Beatles. When we got the Rockband Beatles game, Forrest and Devon took it up to her house, where they played it for her so she could see the memorabilia, the videos. She was so entranced by it that she put aside her fear, took the mic, and sang along. Her dog, not to be left out, started howling along, too. It was silly and we laughed about it a lot, but it was also beautiful.
Her favorite word was "Imagine". She loved the possibilities inherent in it, the ability to dream, to make your dreams reality. I think that in a lot of ways, Deborah was actually able to do this -- to live her dreams out in real time. Even so, she never stopped imagining--it was the only word she loved enough to have tattooed permanently on her body. For Christmas this past year, I gave her a pendant on a simple silver chain, with nothing but her favorite word on it. "Imagine", Deborah. The two are interlocked in my mind.
Deborah was more than just my friend; she's family. Her son, her legacy, is my dear friend and neighbor Devon, my long lost little brother. I remember when I first met Deborah, over at Devon's house. Within ten minutes of meeting me, of watching Devon and I interact the way we do, even she furrowed her brows, cocked her head as she looked at me. "Are you sure you're not my daughter?"
* * *
Deborah had ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease. It's a pretty horrific thing to be diagnosed with, to watch someone you love be claimed by. It's nondiscriminatory -- it affects all races, all genders, all classes in the same rates, and there is no cure. There isn't even really a way to slow it down, much less reverse it, and it's not even totally clear how you get it in the first place. ALS sucks.
In Deborah's honor, I am going to do the Georgia Walk for ALS next week. I'm walking because Deborah can't, because she couldn't have even if she was still here to see it. I'm walking because it's not fair to have to lose anyone this way, because there's this shellshocked hole in my heart where Deborah's laughter is supposed to be, because I can't take the pain in her son's eyes when I hug him and tell him that I'll be here to help him through this.
If you would like to sponsor me, or maybe join the team and walk with me, you can do so here. Whatever you can spare, even if it's just a hug and warm wishes, would be greatly appreciated.
* * *
Her last facebook status, posted last Sunday, was this: "Everything is in divine order and as it should be... always..."
Rest easy, Deborah. I know you're up there rocking out with all your favorite lost legends, but it's a little darker down here today without you.
Just before ten o'clock this morning, the call came that she was being rushed to the hospital. Only a little bit after that, the call came back that she was gone.
Deborah was a warm, friendly hippie in every sense of the word. She worked in music all the days of her life, and counts extraordinary people among her closest friends. Extraordinary people who all agree that she was the one who was extraordinary. She believed in freedom and peace, in being open to experience and having a wonderful time, no matter what your circumstances.
She opened her home to friends by the dozens, not just her own friends, but her son's friends as well. At one point, her son's entire band was living under one roof, in her basement. She would do their laundry and make sure they were never without snacks. She came to all the shows and knew the words to all their songs. She was their biggest fan.
Deborah loved the Beatles. When we got the Rockband Beatles game, Forrest and Devon took it up to her house, where they played it for her so she could see the memorabilia, the videos. She was so entranced by it that she put aside her fear, took the mic, and sang along. Her dog, not to be left out, started howling along, too. It was silly and we laughed about it a lot, but it was also beautiful.
Her favorite word was "Imagine". She loved the possibilities inherent in it, the ability to dream, to make your dreams reality. I think that in a lot of ways, Deborah was actually able to do this -- to live her dreams out in real time. Even so, she never stopped imagining--it was the only word she loved enough to have tattooed permanently on her body. For Christmas this past year, I gave her a pendant on a simple silver chain, with nothing but her favorite word on it. "Imagine", Deborah. The two are interlocked in my mind.
Deborah was more than just my friend; she's family. Her son, her legacy, is my dear friend and neighbor Devon, my long lost little brother. I remember when I first met Deborah, over at Devon's house. Within ten minutes of meeting me, of watching Devon and I interact the way we do, even she furrowed her brows, cocked her head as she looked at me. "Are you sure you're not my daughter?"
* * *
Deborah had ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease. It's a pretty horrific thing to be diagnosed with, to watch someone you love be claimed by. It's nondiscriminatory -- it affects all races, all genders, all classes in the same rates, and there is no cure. There isn't even really a way to slow it down, much less reverse it, and it's not even totally clear how you get it in the first place. ALS sucks.
In Deborah's honor, I am going to do the Georgia Walk for ALS next week. I'm walking because Deborah can't, because she couldn't have even if she was still here to see it. I'm walking because it's not fair to have to lose anyone this way, because there's this shellshocked hole in my heart where Deborah's laughter is supposed to be, because I can't take the pain in her son's eyes when I hug him and tell him that I'll be here to help him through this.
If you would like to sponsor me, or maybe join the team and walk with me, you can do so here. Whatever you can spare, even if it's just a hug and warm wishes, would be greatly appreciated.
* * *
Her last facebook status, posted last Sunday, was this: "Everything is in divine order and as it should be... always..."
Rest easy, Deborah. I know you're up there rocking out with all your favorite lost legends, but it's a little darker down here today without you.