Thomas Mann said “A man’s dying is more his survivor’s affair than his own.” And it’s true. The dead pass. They go where ever it is we go and those of us left behind…well, we keep coming back to them; their voice, their laughter, their smell, the shape of their eyes. Try as we might, the dead never really leave us.
It’s been 8 years since my greatest friend Wendy left this world. Her exit was a 12 year encore of dancing and bowing and dancing again. We watched her life like a great film; the personal moments, the private moments, the great love, the great heartbreak, the collapse, the struggle, the passion and of course her final curtain call. When you know at 13 years old that your life could and probably would be cut short you tend to live life with the kind of wild abandon we all should. But don’t. And those of us who don’t, stare in wonder at these bright enigmatic souls longingly. She had that effect on just about everyone who met her.
Wendy and I became friends at 19 over the mutual love of a boy but that boy brought us together and for that I will always be grateful. We moved in together immediately, acted together, went to radiation together, shaved our heads together, visited NYC for the first time together, lost together, fought together, broke up, made up and laughed and laughed and laughed all within the first two years of becoming friends. Three years later, I found myself moved into her living room in Williamsburg Brooklyn in September of 2002 with two suitcases and 5 boxes. Oh the insane choices we make at 22.
By now Wendy had “successfully” completed her second operation to remove a astrocytoma tumor from her spinal cord, navigated radiation and chemotherapy repeatedly and also graduated college with a bachelors of fine arts and began working as an actress and model. I quote successfully because she struggled with paralysis on her right side on and off for the next 6 years. But she knew how to take care of herself with the right foods, skin care, massages, reiki, magnet therapy, the outdoors and love. She always saved pieces of her for her even at the expense of others, she never let anyone take everything she had. That was such a fascinating lesson I learned from her that I attempt to implement into my life daily. She made time for everything and let herself have as much fun as she wanted. She truly was a demon at time management. That I wish I learned better. She was also crude and smelly and hilarious and goofy and so talented and so ridiculous. She could drink and smoke just about anyone under the table. She laughed hard and loud and loved hard and loud. She could dance and act and decorate an apartment. She dressed up but mostly dressed down and cared equally. She could listen and respond and navigate the feelings. She loved her family, her friends, her Tom and her mean ass cats. And she always had good music playing and good food somewhere nearby. She was a host at life.
And I miss her. A lot. There were many times this year I would have given anything to talk to her again and hug her thin little neck. But all I can do is imagine what she’d say or how she’d feel. Oh her forearm! Her birdlike forearm; the shape, the texture and the lightness is what I will forever think of when I think of her. It was that forearm I held so often the last year as we walked around the city and maneuvered around people so frantic to get somewhere else. It was that forearm she held when the feeling was fleeting and she couldn’t grasp things how she intended. It was that forearm that forever remained the same when everything else bloated and eventually came to.
Her mother called me on October 30th, 2006 around 5:45am. I’d already spent almost every night for the past two months in one of several hospitals rooms and halls. She was dying and it wasn’t something any of us pretended wasn’t happening. In fact, during the last month of her life she made peace with her spiritual and physical journey and wanted our permission to move on. I knew what her mother was going to say before I answered the phone and within two hours I was in the Bronx laying in a hospital bed next to my best friend who was not even there. Her body all puffy and warm was beating and breathing but Wendy, she’d gone home. I’d watched her trying to leave for two months. I watched her body break down and felt her spirit floating around the hospital and in my life. She shifted and expanded and shriveled. She was gone.
She’s been gone for 8 years. And there’s probably not a day that goes by that I don’t think of her and smile. Or cry. But mostly, I smile and hope that she’s doing the same thing looking down on me. But she’s probably dancing in heaven with all them other fools!
Love! Death! GLITTER!!! 
