MISSING BARRY


Barry has been gone for over a year and a half now, and even though I didn’t know her that long I still miss her. She was ten years older than I was, had made her peace with God, yet fought her rapidly spreading breast cancer up to the very end.

She was a generous friend; generous in spirit and in deed. When she found out that I was sharing my car with my daughter and had to drive Deborah to work weekdays if I wanted to go swimming, Barry suggested I use her car. I usually swam mornings and she often slept until noon anyway. She gave me a key to her car.

She was understanding. One day I locked my key in her car at the pool, and had to hitch a ride home. I woke her up to borrow her key to retrieve her car. I felt both embarrassed and stupid. She handled the situation with much grace, and urged me to continue to use her car as if nothing had happened.

She was a lady who cared about her appearance--a woman who dressed up to go out to lunch down the block. I’m someone who is often uncivilized around the edges both in appearance and behavior; I dress for comfort and basic modesty; I own one pair of shoes—by choice. I often tell the unvarnished truth. Despite this neither of us held those facts against each other. I appreciated it that she never tried to civilize me. Both of us took the opportunity of our friendship to exchange stories in essence about how the other half lived. Both of us gave each other unasked-for advice.

We had wide-ranging conversations about politics, about past lives (which she believed in and I didn’t) and religion and metaphysics, about writing and publishing, about husbands and lovers, about our children. She was interested in pop culture and I started watching Dancing with the Stars and American Idol so we could trade opinions about who we thought should have won each week. Barry was both optimistic and idealistic. When I argued that fiction needed conflict to sustain interest, Barry envisioned a utopian future shaped by cooperation and cheerfulness.

She had been a Unity minister before her retirement and was wise about death and dying. “I’m ready to go,” she told me toward the end. “But, I don’t think you’re ready to have me go.” I protested, not wanting to hang on to her, not wanting her to have to use her dwindling energy to reassure me. However, as it turned out she was right.

After her death I allowed my life to get smaller and smaller. I stopped calling friends and family; I stopped watching Dancing with the Stars, I stopped shopping at Trader Joe’s. Barry and I used to go out for lunch once a week, and would often stop by Trader Joe’s before going home. I was not consciously aware that this was happening.

By the first anniversary of her death I had begun to get my life back on track—to get more involved with the world. I enrolled in a writing class and began attending a therapy grief group. Good grief! Barry would have liked the humor in that.