We met in college when Nixon was
president, the Vietnam War was still raging, and answering machines along with
laptops, i-pads and cellphones were all figments of the future. We were
teenagers then, younger than our own children are today, and we had no idea of
what shape our lives would take – of who and what we would become.
For most of the past 42 years, Elyce
and I lived in different cities, a few hundred miles apart at least. But we talked and emailed often, sharing the details along with the gist of our
lives and offering each other what comfort and support we could.
Even during her last awful illness,
Elyce didn’t want to talk just about her own pains and woes. No, she also wanted
to hear about me, too. And if anything, she seemed a little embarrassed by all
the attention and concern. She never let her disease define her. Instead she took control and learned as much
as she could; fought as hard as she could; and lived as fully – and as
meaningfully – as she could.
She just wanted to live a “normal”
life. But I don’t think “normal” is the
right word to describe someone who was beloved not just by her family and
friends but by the medical staff that cared for her.
As her husband said at her funeral
over the weekend, hospital hardened nurses and doctors – even surgeons! – were
moved to tears by Elyce.
How did she find the strength to
carry on? According to one of her three daughters, Elyce said: “Well, I wake up every morning and say,
‘Okay, I’m still alive!’”
And live she did, without wasting
time sweating the small stuff or wallowing in self-pity. And though it all, she kept her gentle, witty
sense of humor, finding ample reasons to laugh. In April, her hospital bed
doubled as a seder table, and her youngest daughter asked, “Why is this night
different from all other nights.” Why
indeed!
On another occasion, her daughter
called, scared and teary over her own health scare. Her mother coaxed and
soothed, and then finally said, “Come on, sweetie. Try to pull it
together. I’ve got to go glue on my
eyebrows now.”
Just last month, I mentioned that a
dear friend was dying a few months short of her own 60th birthday. I
think I made the point that making it to 60 – and beyond – is
hardly something to bemoan, but a gift to enjoy.
Well, I realize now that I was
wrong. Not about the gift of 60, but about my friend. Yes, Elyce had exhausted
all chemotherapy options and her condition was indeed terminal. But even so
Elyce wasn’t dying so much as living, living until the very end with courage
and determination, love and dignity.
As her friend, I feel lucky to have
known her and so very sad to have lost her.
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