Why do I grieve?

A friend of forty-plus years died this morning. She was a few years older than me (not that many!), had a progressive degenerative condition, and had no quality of life, I’m sure, at least for the last couple of years. It would be easy for me to say that, paraphrasing Ann Lamott, her part in my life was done several years ago when she moved to assisted living in Dallas and virtually dropped all communication. A friend and I went to see her a few times, and I called occasionally. The last time I called, she responded to questions but initiated no conversation, and while she knew who I was, I can’t guarantee that the call meant much to her. So why is her death rattling around in my brain?

She was a strong woman. Widowed young, with three small children, by a tragic domestic military accident, she put herself through graduate school and was founding faculty at the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine. I was there too in those formative years, both as staff and a wife, and that gave us a world in common. That world brought us together and probably was the basic glue of our friendship. But after I divorced, we were both single parents who enjoyed dining out—and we did. We traveled together just a bit, although she traveled extensively. We went to the same church and shared many friends there.

Tragedy struck again when she lost her college-age daughter to an accident. I’m not sure she ever knew sustained happiness after that. Her sons were attentive, and she adored her grandchildren, but you know the saying, “A son is a son/Until he takes a wife/ A daughter is a daughter/All of her life.”

In some ways we were odd friends. She boasted she could watch paint dry. I am happily impatient and want action around me, want to be part of the action. In later years she walked so slowly I thought I’d scream—because I needed to walk rapidly to keep my balance. She told me there was no hurry. I thought she was picky and outright critical, and sometimes her narrow idea of right and wrong irritated me; she probably thought I was a lax parent, careless and frivolous in my ways. I thought the skeleton-to-sophistication history of the osteopathic college was a marvelous story; she wanted to forget the skeleton years and was incensed when I included them in a book I wrote on assignment

But she was always there, always a part of my life. Even in her Dallas years, I knew she was there. And now she’s not.

Rest in peace, Mary Lu, and rise in glory. I hope your soul finds Bob and Tracy. You’ve waited for them a long time.