Out of Thin Air

You are one of my favorite people on the planet, plain and simple.

In 2016, my friend Mary wrote that to me in an email with the subject line, “Thank you for being you.” Of course, we didn’t know it at the time, but in a year and a half, just a month after her 30th birthday, she would be gone. The cancer that had riddled her body many times, starting in infancy, would finally be too much for her body to bear.

We knew Mary was very sick, but sometimes her unrelenting optimism and humor made it hard to really know. The breast cancer that had been in remission for so long had come back. But this time, it had spread all over her body. She should have been exploring her new city, spending time with friends, and crushing it at her new job; instead, she was back in New York undergoing excruciating surgeries and chemo treatments and hospital stays.

She should have been pissed off, should have been at least sleeping; instead she was writing emails to us, to her people, to let us know how much we mean to her. To thank us for being us. I learned that I helped her, without doing anything other than being myself.

Mary was one of my students when I worked at Barnard College in NYC. I was fresh out of grad school, and it was my first big girl job in a big girl city. I was only a few years older than my students, so I got to have the big sister vibe rather than the much less fun administrator vibe. Mary immediately captured my attention, and it wasn’t just the eye patch (as a kid, she had surgery that saved her life, but caused her to lose her eye. She rocked the hell out of an eye patch). She captured my attention because she was hilarious, kind, brilliant, and full of energy.

She walked with me nearly every day while I ran errands all over campus. We learned about each other, laughed a lot (like tears-streaming-down-your-face laughed), and she kept me up to date on all of the juicy Barnard gossip. She had the inside scoop on literally everything. We would drop facts on each other or compliment each other and then say, “and that’s my nugget.” I don’t remember where that came from, but it made us laugh. It was a hard time for me– adjusting to being an adult, to being in a new city, to not having very many friends and no family nearby. Those walks were everything to me.

I don’t think I ever told you, but the time we spent together while I was in college — our afternoon walks around campus to run your errands– were a critical source of friendship for me.

I hadn’t known how much those walks and our friendship meant to Mary, too. She told me that I didn’t need to respond to her email. She wasn’t looking for a response. But I’m so glad I did write her back. I’m so glad I let her know that she was one of the brightest spots of the time I spent in New York. That she helped me, without doing anything other than being herself. And that I was forever changed by meeting her. I’m so glad I let her know while she was alive how much she meant to me.

Mary died five years ago today. I miss her. What a gift and an honor to have known her and to know that I had even a small impact on her life. Mary reminds me that our existence matters, that the way we treat others matters. And that it doesn’t hurt to let people know how much they mean to you, while you still have the time.

Mary, you were the absolute best. And that’s my nugget.