she didn't want a service, so she threw herself a party

Last weekend, a friend of mine passed away after a long illness. I’ll miss her very much. But please refrain from feeling sad, because I’d like to tell you about some of our time together.

* * *

We were shopping together in Boston, the day before a conference started. When we went to check out, the woman behind the counter asked my friend if she was buying for me. I guess she thought we were related.

“Baby’s paying for herself today,” she said.

* * *

After a day of site visits during which we had gotten lost in our own neighborhood several times, we concluded our exhaustion at her house.

“Do you want a Bloody Mary or a beer?”

“I’ll take a Bloody Mary,” I said.

“Do you want a snit?”

For those of you who might be unaware, a "snit" is the same as a beer back. For those of you who don’t know what a beer back is, that is how we role.

“Yeah.”

She made me the biggest, baddest (bad as in good), best Bloody Mary I have ever had. Complete with all of the wonderful things those drinks bring, like olives, celery, cheese, and salt.

And then she handed me my snit. In the form of an entire bottle of Corona.

"What would you have done if I had asked for a beer?"

"Made you a Bloody."

* * *

When she found out she was not going to recover from her illness, it was very near her birthday. So she threw a giant party for herself. It was a beautiful evening with a couple hundred of her closest friends. Everyone’s name tag had a different plastic flower hot glued to it, or a golf tee. The food and wine were spectacular and abundant. Toward the end of the evening, we all gathering outside so she could tell us how much she loved us, and how grateful she was we were all there.

Someone started to cry.

“No crocodile tears,” she said.

* * *

I visited her a half dozen times during her last three months. Her house was a revolving door of guests and the phone rang off the hook when I was there. I had wanted to go out to dinner with her but it just was not possible. The first time I came, she was getting a hospital bed installed. She teased me about how the guy who was installing it was flirting with me.

“He didn’t say a word until you came in. Perked right up.”

“That’s hilarious.”

* * *

One time, she wanted me to bring her two fish sandwiches from McDonald’s which she ate with a glass of milk. She showed me a card she had bought for her friend who she described as “a big busted woman, but you would never know it to look at her.” And I wondered how she knew. I asked her how she was doing. We talked about how great her party was.

“I only regret not getting to go to Istanbul,” she said. “That would have been fun.”

* * *

A couple weeks before died, I took my first trip to see her with a group of people. We drank Bloody Marys and snits again and talked about sports and tequila. I gave her a kiss and we said we loved each other.

“I have a cold,” she said. “I don’t want to give it to you.”

“I don’t care,” I said.

* * *

The last time I saw her was two days before 7:20 a.m. on February 12. She was sleeping a deep, heavy sleep. We rubbed her hands and told her she was beautiful. And she is.

* * *

Losing people is such a pain in the ass. In so many ways.

It’s probably clear what I learned from Vickie. That relationships matter, that Paul was right; the love you take is equal to the love you make. That specifying the size of your beer back is advisable. All of that stuff everyone is pretty sure they knew already. That death is a part of life. That it’s sad when people go away. That life is for the living, even when you know your time is soon.

That life is for the living.