Unhappy Endings

Shortly after my first trip to Alaska (about 30 years ago), we bought a puppy whose mother was 1/2 coyote. I named the puppy Alaska, because I loved the place. The part of her that wasn't coyote was German Shepherd, so she had the body and markings of a shepherd but she had the ears and personality of a Coyote. Needless to say, I spoiled her from day one, and she was properly cuddled by both my 3-year-old daughter and yours truly. Consequently, Alaska grew up believing she was a lap dog.

Any time someone new came to the house, her first instinct was to hide and observe. If the stranger seemed safe, her second instinct was to jump into his or her lap, and lick his or her face, expecting nothing short of... proper cuddling. Although not everyone loved her as much as we did, she wanted everyone to become her best friend for life.

At some point in my life I came to realize I had the same tendency. If someone was nice to me, I immediately wanted to form a lifelong friendship. Whenever that didn't happen, I was confused. Over time I grew to understand that some people are professionally nice, which means the niceness is superficial, carrying no weight at all outside of the social context. This is when I coined the term, "The Alaska Syndrome." What this means to me is that I need to inspect interactions within the framework of the other person's intentions, not my own. If someone is simply being professionally nice, I respond in kind. I stay out of their lap.

By nature I prefer in-depth over superficial. Not good at small talk, for example. Would rather dig in and discuss the meaning of life. This is the reason I form friendships based on quality rather than quantity. It's not about how long or how well you've known a person. It's about whether or not you connect in a way that influences both your lives. The reason I'm writing about friendship is that in the past few months I've been dramatically impacted by my friendship with four people I consider friends.

Debrah was the secretary of the Sports Science Department at UOP, where I teach Traditional Yoga as an adjunct professor. Although I've earned two doctorate degrees, I consider the world of academia a nice place to visit, but wouldn't want to live there, ya know? For the past eight years Debrah acted as liaison, cushioning me with her common sense from what I perceive as the madness of the higher education machine. Sadly, she died of cancer a month or so ago.

Julie was my aesthetician for years; also a client, who used my services after four failed attempts at in vitro fertilization. With hypnotherapy, I helped her conceive and deliver two babies. It was my honor, and my privilege. Sadly, two weeks after the birth of her most recent child, Julie died as a result of misuse of pain medication in the hospital. I felt her loss more deeply than I did that of my father, mother, or mother-in-law, all of whom passed away within the last couple of years.

As I wrote about in a previous blog, Susan was a classmate back in the fifties. Not a close friend but someone I remember, and whose loss I mourn. She was recently murdered (along with her husband) by their son-in-law. It disturbs me deeply to know she did not die quickly after being shot, but managed to first crawl out of her house into a wooded area, to dial 911.

Another friend, one I've known for about thirty years, is currently in a San Jose hospital as the result of an aneurysm-related stroke. I've sent a card, but cannot bring myself to visit her. She can't take calls, and the hospital staff gives very little information about her condition,; but I have been told she has a constant stream of visitors signing in, and more flowers than her room can handle practically. I need to call soon for an update, but I'm putting it off. I'm afraid of what I may learn. I need to hold on awhile longer to the memory of her as vital, spirited, and living out her lifelong dream of earning a PhD in History.

Why do I feel compelled today to write about these four friends? The answer comes to me in the form of a line from an old movie, The Competition. Lee Remick plays the part of a piano coach who warns her protege about becoming emotionally entangled with a young pianist against whom she is competing. Amy Irving's character looks up from the keyboard with a questioning glance, and Lee Remick says to her, "Oh no. Everyone has a story to tell, and you don't need to hear mine."

These four women have stories that do need to be told, if only briefly for now. Three of the stories have unhappy endings, and the fourth is still unfolding; but when we experience loss in such a manner as this, it's perfectly normal to experience a sense of helplessness. What can we do? Nothing. Except perhaps to find a way to acknowledge the lives that hold meaning for us.

Metaphorically, I climbed into these ladies' laps for awhile, and I simply want my readers to know that because I can forever embrace the memory, my life has been made better by the experience.