No matter how I tried to disbelieve them, the words seared into my mind: “… died Jan 29th, 2008, after a courageous 12-year battle with cancer.”
I stared at the words, numb, incredulous, and felt as though I were inside a lightless, soundless room, the air pressure squeezing my head. My brain couldn’t make sense of it, didn’t want to make sense of it. Memories of the times we had shared together all those years ago flooded in. It couldn’t be her, I desperately told myself, it just couldn’t be. I had always believed that some day we would meet again, when we were both ready. But now I was staring at words that told me I would never see her again. Time stopped.
***
I was 26 in 1988, the year I first met Barb. There was something about her that drew me to her—a certain spunkiness … and a certain melancholy. She was 34—more than seven years older than I—but that didn’t matter at all; she had the heart and spirit of someone ten years her junior. We really hit it off and for the next seven years we had a close—albeit somewhat tumultuous, on-again-off-again—relationship. But through it all, our friendship endured.
By 1995, though, the relationship had become strained. I was feeling smothered and was pulling away from her, and she was desperately trying to hold on. I wasn’t very nice to her in those days, something I truly regret now. All she ever wanted was to be loved, to feel that she was special to someone. But at that time in my life, I just couldn’t give her the commitment she needed. And so, in August of that year she finally made the decision to let go of me. I still remember that phone call. It was to be the last time I ever spoke to her.
It would be the following year the lump in her breast was discovered, and even though she’d had a successful lumpectomy, she would never be rid of the cancer.
By 1995, though, the relationship had become strained. I was feeling smothered and was pulling away from her, and she was desperately trying to hold on. I wasn’t very nice to her in those days, something I truly regret now. All she ever wanted was to be loved, to feel that she was special to someone. But at that time in my life, I just couldn’t give her the commitment she needed. And so, in August of that year she finally made the decision to let go of me. I still remember that phone call. It was to be the last time I ever spoke to her.
It would be the following year the lump in her breast was discovered, and even though she’d had a successful lumpectomy, she would never be rid of the cancer.
***
Throughout the years I’d think about her now and then, wondering how she was doing, hoping that life was treating her well. I really wanted for her to have found someone special. There were many occasions where I was tempted to try and find her again, to see how she was doing. But we hadn’t parted on the most amicable of terms and I felt that she might not appreciate me calling on her. I believed she needed to be free of me, so she could move on. Still, I always hoped that somehow our paths would cross again.
For 12 years she battled her cancer, until January 29th, 2008, when her body just couldn’t take any more, and she succumbed to the disease.
The last time we’d spoken—all those years ago on the phone on that warm summer day in 1995—she told me that I’d never find another person like her, that I would miss her. At the time I wasn’t sure I believed that; I suppose I may have been too arrogant. It wasn’t until a warm summer day in 2008—the day I saw her obituary—that I realized her words were true. Barb was one of a kind. And I do miss her.
And it’s the little things I remember: jogging together in the park by the flat I used to live in; breakfasts at her house on Sunday mornings; songs she liked for me to sing to her; a walk to the Dairy Queen; a day at Four Bears Water Park; how she loved Puffalumps. Those are the things that gave her life then … and keep her alive in my memories now. I’m a better person for having known her.
Twenty years have passed since the day I first met her. Although I hadn’t seen her in more than twelve years, I know I’ll miss her forever.
For 12 years she battled her cancer, until January 29th, 2008, when her body just couldn’t take any more, and she succumbed to the disease.
The last time we’d spoken—all those years ago on the phone on that warm summer day in 1995—she told me that I’d never find another person like her, that I would miss her. At the time I wasn’t sure I believed that; I suppose I may have been too arrogant. It wasn’t until a warm summer day in 2008—the day I saw her obituary—that I realized her words were true. Barb was one of a kind. And I do miss her.
And it’s the little things I remember: jogging together in the park by the flat I used to live in; breakfasts at her house on Sunday mornings; songs she liked for me to sing to her; a walk to the Dairy Queen; a day at Four Bears Water Park; how she loved Puffalumps. Those are the things that gave her life then … and keep her alive in my memories now. I’m a better person for having known her.
Twenty years have passed since the day I first met her. Although I hadn’t seen her in more than twelve years, I know I’ll miss her forever.
