#gpoym

These are photos of my mom from the 1970’s. Her childhood best friend, Carol, mailed them to me in May of this year. She’d found them while cleaning a drawer and wanted me to have them. Because of the resemblance. Because she knew I make my mom garish birthday cards each year, and she though these pictures might be a good fit. She was thoughtful like that. 

I just found out that Carol died last night of a heart attack.

Carol was a fun-loving, ebullient, encouraging person. She first befriended my mom in middle school, and I think she had a massive influence. She helped my mom to find her inner weirdness, and really encouraged her to let it come out. My mom used to be an extremely shy, reserved person. Carol was one of the few people around whom my mom could comfortably be herself, back then. 

I really liked Carol as a person; it wasn’t just her importance and closeness with my mom that made me care for her. Carol was a good writer and an avid reader, though life and an abusive partner got in the way of many of her largest aspirations. Carol had to recover from years of verbal, financial, and physical abuse, and raised her son Casey on her own. Her son was half black, and Carol and Casey both faced a lot of harsh treatment for it, including rejection by Carol’s mom (though they eventually reconciled). After a long period of struggling, Carol settled into a decent legal admin job, raised her son, and helped him to raise his own step children. I know life was hard for her. I know that hardship helped her develop a keen sense of empathy and compassion. 

Carol also had two dogs, Scooter and Miss Diamond, whom she absolutely adored. Every weekend was cause to celebrate, as far as Carol was concerned, because it meant cuddling with her dogs and drinking Kahlua on the couch. Carol was always posting pics of her dogs and her favorite snacks on Facebook, and I know that sounds banal, but her joy was contagious, and very welcome on my feed. She was also active in posting about issues of social justice, and was incredibly passionate and well-informed on those topics. She never got a college degree, but she was wonderfully self taught. 

Carol always supported me, and followed my writing with avid interest. She read all my stories, celebrated my publication success, encouraged other people to read me, and offered to review my rough drafts. When I was younger, she helped volunteer judge debate tournaments a few times, helping make it possible for me to compete.

Carol was quick to remind me how much I resemble my mom. She also reminded me of how different my mom and I are, and how much my mom has changed and blossomed over the years. Carol helped my mom become a self-possessed, confident, crass weirdass lady. But Carol also could recognize the slow, yet massive influence that my sister and I had on my mom. A child doesn’t always get to know the influence they’ve had, unintentionally, on their parents, but Carol helped Staci and I to see it. She also taught us about the constancy, the parts of my mom that are cardinal, and have always existence since she was a goofy, Bette Midler loving twenty-something. Carol’s presence in our lives gave us access to angles and elements of a narrative I never could have otherwise accessed. She helped me understand my family’s history. 

Carol also remembered the rough times, and was one of the few people who could really empathize with the complex emotions that attended the loss of my and Staci’s dad. She knew Greg, she saw my parents’ relationship at every stage of its formation and dissolution. She got it, probably on a level that even I don’t. I’m sure she remember a whole wealth of details I’ll never hear about, now. But most importantly, she got it. She could really feel our pain, and our relief, our guilt and confusion. We didn’t have to explain it to her. Knowing someone was out there who got it meant a lot to me. Still does. 

We all knew Carol took poor care of her health. She smoked, she ate lots of sweets, she loathed exercise. She had experienced a heart attack before. She’d heard doctor’s warnings, had surgery, made excuses. My mom was familiar with that kind of crap. She’d seen it before with my dad. At some point, you have to let go. You can’t force someone to make responsible decisions.