A year ago today, a little over 5 months shy of her 90th birthday, Phyllis died.
She survived three older sisters, each of whom died in the month of September, and she used to joke, “I just need to make it through September, honey.” I guess she just decided that she had endured all the Septembers she could, and was ready to rejoin her sisters for some long overdue beer and tacos.
This was the first time I ever experienced the death of someone I loved so dearly. My friend, my confidant, my sassy “old lady friend” (her term), I never hesitated to describe her as family. It felt awkward to say anything else. Our family had become the kids and grandkids she never had. And way back on that rainy morning in December, she was the first person I called to tell that we had a daughter, and decided to name her Stella. She was finally a great grandmother.
Phyllis was the real deal. She swore, she drank and she always called it like it was. I can still hear her adamant proclamation of “bullshit!” as I tried, tirelessly, to tell her how I would go back to school and finish my degree – I swear! Somewhere along the line it became her mission to make sure we didn’t blow our opportunities. And when it came to our education, she was relentless. She did everything she could to make sure it happened. I am just so glad that she got to bear witness to the completion of my 12 year odyssey through college. See, Phyllis? I told you I would do it…eventually.
Something you could either love or hate about Phyllis is that she was always brutally honest. She was quick to point out the truth – whether you wanted to hear it or not. A typical conversation between Celene and I on our way over to Phyllis’s would go something like this:
“Which one of us do you think she will tell has gained weight?”
“I think it was me last time. It’s probably your turn.”
No visit was complete without her looking at one of us and pointing out the size of our ass. I guess when you are an octegenarian you aren’t held to the same rules as everyone else, and it is considered completely okay to smack someone on the butt and say, “well honey, looks like you packed on a couple of pounds there!” What exactly do you say to something like that? Nothing – you just suck it up and respect her for the fact that she has lived this long and can, damn well, say anything she wants. [I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that she also would be kind enough to point out those rare moments when we had actually lost weight.]
There have been many, many times over the last year where I have wished I could just pick up the phone and called her. I have tried hard to keep myself from falling into the I-wish-I-would-have whirlpool of regret. There are a million ways I could have done more, been more, tried harder. But then I step back and try to remember that she loved us regardless of how many times we called or wrote. She was always happy to hear from us, and I loved the fact that all the way up until the last time I spoke with her on the phone, she knew my voice instantly. I miss her great laugh, her awesome stories and above all, her enduring friendship.
I miss you terribly, Phyllis, but wherever you are, I hope you are happy and healthy, with a beer in your hand and a cat at your side. You deserve it.
