I went out west to Los Angeles when I was barely 20-years-old. It’s a miracle right up there with the loaves and fishes feeding the crowds that I lived out my early adulthood unscathed.
We were a rowdy bunch…we took silly and unnecessary chances practically on a daily basis. We’d stay up all night partying and then hop on the backs of friends’ motorcycles to ride over the canyons in the early morning darkness to do a little pre-sunrise swim in the ocean. We took chances…we parasailed, hang glided, and I even jumped out of a perfectly good airplane…twice!
We were immortal in our youth…death hadn’t come to our houses just yet. I had lost a dear friend in high school, so I knew life could be over in an instant, but while we were here, we wanted to do it all. Take those chances, push the boundaries…if death were to claim us, He was going to have to work for it.
There was a group of us in a theater group and we put on plays right there in Hollywood. It was too good to be true for this small town girl from the south. I was already clearing a place on my mantle for the Oscars and Emmys I was sure to win.
At one point, we did this play called Lifetime. It was, as the title suggests, the story of life presented in a poetic and whimsically dramatic light. There was one scene where I was on stage alone talking about being the last one of my peers around. All my character’s friends and family had passed before her and she was lamenting her predicament. She talked about how there was no longer anyone to remember with. All of the people in her memories were gone now, and she was alone.
Every night when I’d walk into that spotlight to deliver those lines, I thought I was brilliant. I thought I put raw feeling and brutal reality into those words…and maybe I did a little bit. But I had no idea what the writer was talking about.
Until now.
These days, being a little past my early 20s, as you might imagine, it seems there are more hospital visits and funerals than there are weddings or showers. When you get to that “threshold of middle age,” the tide begins to turn and you find the old adage about there being more in the rearview mirror than the windshield begins to hit hard. And when you stretch that “threshold” as far as I have…that rearview mirror gets pretty darned big.
The funerals are good, though…they are for those of us left after our loved one has passed on, and I think it’s human nature to need the closure they give us. Sometimes though, a funeral isn’t possible for one reason or another so that closure has to come another way.
I recently lost a sweet friend, Helen Pointer, whose family is a little scattered across the country so they didn’t have a service for her here. Helen and I had gotten to know each other pretty well. She was one of our group who call ourselves “The Barbell Babes.” We met years ago at New Life Gym, and when that closed, most of us migrated to the Jewish Community Center and continued to work out together. Our Barbell Babes group continued to meet every couple months for lunch or dinner and to catch up with each other. Helen always loved those meetings.
Helen was one of the strongest ladies I ever met. No matter what life threw at her, she met it front and center and simply carried on. In her 80s she dealt with various health issues one by one, and her single goal was to recuperate so she could get back to the gym. She was fiercely independent and almost totally reluctant to ask for help. She taught herself how to order food through DoorDash and InstaCart and when any of us offered to bring her anything, she’d always tell us she was “just fine.”
She treasured being mobile and did every gym class available that would help her stay that way. She invited me to go to her spin class one time and I had to leave it 15-minutes in. I figured if a woman in her 80s could do it, surely I could.
I couldn’t.
Once we started, I was huffing and puffing and gasping for air. I know in the south, ladies don’t sweat; we glow. Well, I was glowing like a race horse after winning the Derby! I looked over at Helen and she was as serene as a butterfly gliding along at the full pace. I had to drag my pitiful soggy self off the bike and out of class. When I got to the door, I looked back at Helen and she gave me a thumbs up and mouthed, “Next time!”
Helen left us August 12 on her 86th birthday. She leaves behind, along with her beloved family, a large group of friends who will miss her terribly. Helen lived and loved out loud. She’d do anything for her people, and if you were lucky enough to be one of them, you knew you were special to her. And that knowledge lingers on, warming us and reminding us once again that love never dies. So rest easy Helen. You loved us well, and we’ll miss you my friend. We’ll see you on the other side.
I’m Just Saying…
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